A Little Night Music
by KNO3
Summary: Joker's death marked the end of an era. The city was moving on, filled with new heroes and new villains, and Scarecrow no longer had a place in Gotham. Romance between Harley Quinn and Jonathan Crane.
1. Chapter 1

I've started on my next fanfiction early- a Harley/Crane romance, written at Athulis' suggestion. This is certainly going to be a stretch for me, as I have absolutely no experience writing (or reading) romance, so comments will be very much appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters and never will. Any profits will go to help Arkham Asylum get some decent security.

* * *

It was Joker's death that finally did it.

Jonathan Crane glanced at the rolled-up newspaper and sighed. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes, still weary from last night's non-sleep in the din of Arkham. He already knew what the headline said—he'd read it thrice already. The Joker was dead. His bullet-riddled corpse had finally been found after another "daring escape" from the Batman. Apparently, he'd jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire—or, more accurately, into one of Anthony Thorne's business meetings. The guards probably didn't even know who they'd gunned down before it was all over. Crane idly wondered if it would have made a difference.

But they all knew the clown had been moving slower lately. Well, they'd all been moving slower lately. Time waits for no man, as Temple Fugate would have so eagerly reminded him. Even the best and brightest of men eventually yield to Time's slow advance. But the Joker… he'd always seemed so hideous, so chaotic, so… so invincible. Laughing hysterically while dashing through Gotham, committing heinous crimes of costumed villainy, escaping Batman with rocket-powered pogo sticks and exploding lemon meringue pies, falling to his "death" at least a dozen times... the Joker, dead? It just didn't make sense. The Joker was too ridiculous to die! Crane sighed again and shifted slightly on the thin, lumpy mattress. He'd never liked the clown—who had?—but there was always something about Joker that made him seem above it all. He could never imagine Joker as an old man. He couldn't really imagine himself as an old man either, but the mirror didn't lie. There were wrinkles around his eyes—crow's feet, he thought with a wan smile—that hadn't been there last time he checked, and he no longer found it child's play to twist his way out of a pair of handcuffs. Not that he got much practice; Jonathan Crane hadn't left Arkham for nearly two years.

Glancing up, Crane let his eyes wander down the hallway. So many cells were empty now. There was Ventriloquist's cell—Wesker had finally managed to suppress his darker half, and had been in a halfway house for nearly a decade. There was Killer Croc's old cage—the freakish man had been ironically killed by a rockslide when he failed to budge a massive boulder trapping him in the quarry. Jonathan Crane mentally ran through the list in his head—Baby Doll, whose condition had finally caught up to her; Riddler, who'd crossed the Black Mask once too often; Poison Ivy, permanently retired in Brazil; Two-Face, who'd finally won (or lost, depending on one's side in the matter) the ultimate coin toss; Jervis Tetch…

Crane's eyes lingered on the Mad Hatter's empty cell. He never missed Croc or that overweening Riddler, but Tetch had been a friend. Word had it he'd vanished about a year ago; at the time, Crane was drugged out of his mind and spending most of his waking hours in the electroshock chamber as part of a "radical new treatment" proposed by some dunce of a doctor… by the time his head had cleared enough to function, the Hatter had been missing for months. Crane noted that there had also been a rash of robberies at Gotham's electronics research labs at the time, and sincerely hoped that Jervis was enjoying his retirement.

The list was a long one. Crane mentally ticked them off one by one: Catwoman, retired; Clayface, dead; Clock King, dead; Victor Fries… well, Victor Fries was still alive. He had to admit that. The doctors were saying that, with his metabolism radically slowed by the cryonic liquid, he could very will live to be two, three thousand years old.

But the city was moving on, filled with new heroes and new villains. There was talk of a man who had flaming hands, a contortionist who could slip through anything, a murderess who took the names of her victims, a surgeon who did bad operations. Some days Crane wondered if people still remembered who he was. Once, he would be glad to be forgotten, biding his time until he struck with the strength of surprise, but his frightening alter-ego had been strangely silent lately. Weeks went by without a stir of Scarecrow, something that pleased his therapist but added to his own depression. Didn't they understand that he needed—he _needed_—Scarecrow? Who had stood guard when he'd been sent to the basement and kept the shadows at bay? Who had comforted him in the chapel when Grandmother locked him in and loosed her infernal crows? Who had stood by his side and kept the phantom birds away after he'd been exposed to his own toxin time and time again? He and Scarecrow were supposed to be one and the same, eventually; it was only thanks to the pills the doctors force-fed him through the years that weak, cowardly Crane remained. But now, ever since that "treatment program", Scarecrow had been growing quieter and quieter…

With a disgusted snort, Crane tipped over the newspaper, disrupting a large black fly. He eyed it apathetically, watching it buzz lazily against the bulletproof glass, thin wings droning loudly. Once, it would have afforded him hours of entertainment; trapping it, pulling the wings off, terrifying it for hours, and finally slipping it down the neck of an unsuspecting—and mildly insectophobic—orderly… now, he merely found it annoying. He missed Scarecrow's dark glee, the sick pleasure of power, the guilty warmth that surged through him… it wasn't that he wanted to go back... well, maybe he did, but… Crane shook his head slowly. It was so hard to tell with things like this anymore. Privately, he blamed the medicaton they forced into him every morning. It tended to make any serious thoughts of Scarecrow rather heavy and slow.

He glanced back at the front page of the newspaper, now splayed on the cement floor. A huge picture of the police loading up a body bag covered the front page, just under the headline JOKER FOUND DEAD—POLICE SUSPECT GANG SHOOTING. In one corner, the Joker's face grinned up evilly from a police mug shot, a picture taken in "happier" times. Harley had been caught on the same night, and most of Joker's gang had defected to Black Mask or the Falcone, so the Joker's body had been consigned to a public burial plot. Crane sighed. He wondered if anyone would even remember Joker in a few years. Then he shook his head. There were still a few thousand grinning Jokerfish in Gotham Bay, not to mention the twenty-seven Gothamites who'd survived the Joker gas and now sported a permanent smile. No one could forget Joker… at least not for a few hundred years. But in the end, what was he really but a small ripple in the surface of time, easily—

"No! _No! _You can't _do _this to me!"

Crane looked up. He recognized the high, almost girlish voice, although he'd rarely heard such… fear coming from her before. He focused on the word—_fear—_almost hopefully. Usually Scarecrow would jump in about now with a long, crazed rant about the power of terror, earning Crane a straitjacket and a cell in the solitary wing. No such luck.

"You're lying! You're all _lying!" _Harley Quinn sobbed, as she was dragged into Tetch's old cell by two burly orderlies. Her blonde hair, no longer quite as bouncy as it had once been, flopped wildly about as she struggled.

"Look, miss, the Commissioner doesn't lie," one sighed. "Joker's dead. You gotta accept that."

"Not true! Not true! You're all a bunch of liars!" Harley collapsed onto her bed and began weeping.

Crane turned away uncomfortably. He wasn't quite sure what to feel. Logically, he knew pity and compassion was in order—at least, for a _normal _person—but he also knew that _he _should be feeling some sort of villainous glee as well. Or was that Scarecrow? He shook his head slowly, feeling the familiar sluggishness as Scarecrow unsuccessfully tried to rouse himself.

"Professor Crane," Harley sniffled, not looking up.

"Yes, child," Crane replied automatically.

"Do you think Mistah J's dead?"

Crane heaved a long sigh.

"Yes, I believe he is," he replied.

This sent Harley into fresh hysterics. Crane watched her silently, tracing a pattern on the brass bedpost with a forefinger. He wondered if she would keep crying for much longer. Joker's unpredictability had rubbed off on Harley; she might keep the waterworks going for hours, or lapse back into denial for a few days. Crane shrugged and looked back at the newspaper. He'd read and re-read it, but there was nothing else to do besides listen to Harley's pathetic weeping. He stared at the headline, trying to think of an anagram for it. Nothing came to mind. Crane shook his head, a little sadly. He used to be quick—almost as quick as Riddler. _Things change. _

Across the halls, Harley's sobs grew slower and quieter, subsiding into hiccups and finally silence. Glancing over his shoulder, Crane saw her kneeling by the bed, her head buried in her arms. He shook his head. It still seemed so… impossible. The Joker couldn't really be dead. He'd been "dead" before… but never with a body. The Joker, dead? Crane snorted a little. Joker had just been in here, just a few weeks ago, laughing it up like always. He couldn't be dead. Crane could still picture him in his mind, large as life _and twice as natural… as Jervis would say. _But, watching Harley's shoulders finally relaxing into empty silence, it really hit home. It was the end of an era.


	2. Chapter 2

First, thanks for the feedback. Seriously. I have zero experience with romance (writing it, that is), and it means the world to me to get encouraging reviews.

The "new" villains referenced in the first chapter are Phosphorus (DC Comics), Ragdoll (The Batman), Jane Doe (DC Comics), and Professor Pyg (DC Comics). Which technically means this fanfiction is messing with any and all of the Batman continuities (DC Comics, Elseworlds, Earth Prime, Batman Beyond), so let's just pretend that this takes place in a parallel universe to the comic alternate where everything is the same as the cartoon series except the stuff that's not. Or maybe it's a dream in the Hatter's mind/machine in the comic spinoff of the cartoon where his dream machine shorts out and traps him in Wonderland, and therefore never happened. Or it's a just a fanfiction. Take your pick.

* * *

Jonathan Crane rarely dreamed anymore. Perhaps it was a side effect of the plethora of medications they forced into him every morning; perhaps it was a side effect of losing Scarecrow. No, not losing him, Crane quickly amended. Scarecrow would come back. He had to come back. It wasn't as if he were a split personality like Two-face or Scarface. Scarecrow was a part of himself, a personified version of the shadow animus, albeit a very imaginative one. It would be akin to a normal person losing their arm or leg by taking vitamins; it just couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen.

Jonathan Crane sat limply on the thin mattress, thin enough to feel the spokes of the iron bedframe beneath it. He'd "earned" this bedframe through his so-called "good behavior"; i.e., the absence of Scarecrow. He remembered the day quite clearly. Joan Robinson, nee Leland, had escorted him back to the cell where two orderlies were assembling the ancient four-poster.

"We're all very proud of the progress you've been making, Dr. Crane," she had said, placing a hand on his shoulder and ignoring his usual recoil. "You haven't had an outburst in nearly four months, so Dr. Abraham feels you're ready to regain some privileges. From now on, you'll be allowed two hours a day in the rec room, as well as…"

Crane hadn't heard the rest of it; his mind was still reeling with _You haven't had an outburst in nearly four months. _A sudden, unfamiliar feeling took hold of him. Scarecrow sometimes tuned out or simply stayed quiet, usually after Crane ignored his advice or cooperated with Dr. Abraham, but four months? Four months? It couldn't possibly be.

The next day, Dr. Crane—not Scarecrow—spoke to one of the guards for the first time in four months. Within minutes, the man was whimpering in terror, gasping for breath, almost ready to scream. But it brought Crane no satisfaction. Then, of course, they'd come and straitjacketed him and taken him to solitary. He hadn't had the energy to fight back, just let them put the restraints on him and walk him to the dark little room.

Then he'd had a panic attack. Him, the Master of Fear… no, he had no claim to that title. It was Scarecrow who was the Master of Fear—Jonathan Crane was nothing more than a weak, cowardly, powerless little boy who was afraid of birds. He'd screamed, wept, pled, chanted nursery rhymes like a liturgy, and thrashed uselessly in the straitjacket until there was blood on the collar, but there was no one there. No one to answer him, no one to comfort him, no one to protect him. Jonathan Crane was alone. For four hellish days, the silence continued. On the fifth, however, he was desperate enough to try dislocating his shoulder—a trick his alter ego had used to escape on several occasions—to free himself from the clinging jacket. It was incredibly painful, he knew, but he was desperate. And then there had been a voice, a familiar raspy whisper from the darkest corner of the cell.

_**Scare…crow… **_

Jonathan had almost wept with joy. Although his alter had remained silent for the rest of the week in solitary, it was enough. He was still alive. He was still there. Crane wasn't _alone_.

Watching Harley Quinn sob into her pillow, he wondered if she was experiencing something similar. After all, nothing defined the dancing harlequin if not her less-than-perfect Puddin'. He certainly was the stronger, the more charismatic, the more violent… Crane shifted uncomfortably, his shoulder aching at the remembrance of his last run-in with the Joker. Fortunately for him (but unfortunately for Harley), there was no way Joker would be able to come back from the dead. Not even homicidal clowns had that kind of luck. The Joker had created Harley, driven his naïve, idealistic, inexperienced therapist insane; if it weren't for the chaotic clown, Harley Quinn wouldn't exist. Crane wondered if she could exist without him, if she would stay Harley Quinn. He'd never put much stock in the weeping-oneself-to-death, dying-of-a-broken-heart notion, but if anyone could do it, it would be a Joker-less Harley. Or perhaps she'd retire. Far more likely, Crane thought; she'd only taken to crime to please her precious Puddin'. Yes, that was highly likely. She would go through a few months of therapy, regain her sanity, and become a law-abiding citizen of Gotham… or perhaps she'd fake a recovery and dedicate her life to preserving the memory of Mistah J. That was also quite possible.

Still, Crane's money—if he had any—would be on recovery and retirement. It wasn't that Harley Quinn had no criminal skills without the Joker, but she had no criminal motive without the Joker. And, quite frankly, she was getting on in life. There were lines and wrinkles on her face that hadn't been there before, and she'd lost some of her supple grace, her lithe movement. Crane highly suspected that, had she not _always _bleached her hair, he would see 'silver threads among the gold', so to speak. It was unsettling; Harley had always been the bubbly, bouncy, slightly childish sidekick. According to Joker, it was part of the humor. She'd always reminded Crane of a young teenage girl, foolish and idealistic and peppy. Perhaps she'd acted the part on purpose, perhaps it was a result of having her mind broken by the Joker. Either way, suddenly realizing that Harley Quinn—_Harley Quinn—_was in her early forties was deeply unsettling. She could have been a mother with an adult son by now, Crane suddenly realized. In a few years she could pass for a grandmother. Baby Doll had been one thing; it was far easier to watch a grown woman act like a child when she really _looked _like a child. But Harley Quinn? _Old? _It was about as easy as imagining the Joker dead.

A movement outside his cell door caught Crane's eye, and he looked up slowly, waiting for his eyes to focus properly. Curse those doctors and their medication, he thought grimly. When he escaped from here and found Scarecrow again…

They were escorting Harley Quinn back to her cell, if by "escorting" one really meant "dragging down the hall kicking and screaming." Crane sighed, mildly irritated. So she was still in denial. How… boring.

"…kill you all! I'm gonna track down the guys that did it, and gas 'em all, and then I'm gonna—hey, that's not nice! No pokeys! I hate pokeys! Owie owie owie!—and then I'm gonna run 'em over, and then I'm gonna feed 'em to the piranhas—"

Harley's tirade was considerably slower and thicker at this point. Crane looked up, focusing on her. Oh, so she had come to terms with Joker's death. He'd expected the denial period to last at least a few more weeks. He shrugged and settled his thin frame against the cold bedframe. Oh well. She was that much closer to recovering and leaving the asylum. Good for her.

"—and then I'm gonna… (yawn)… give the scraps to Bud…"

Crane swallowed a little at this last. Bud? Only Bud? He hadn't heard about Lou's death… not that it mattered… he glanced across the hallway at Harley. She was asleep. Well, tranquilized. There wasn't a lot of difference between the two in Arkham. He'd wanted to ask her something… oh yes, it was about Lou. Not that it mattered to him; the two hyenas were scruffy, savage, unmannered, annoyingly loud, and emitted an offensive odor. In short, they were only a few steps above the average Gothamite, and had the Joker not threatened to break every bone in Crane's body, Scarecrow would have used them for "experiments" long ago. But, as unpleasant as they were, the two laughing canines were a symbol of the past. They had nostalgic value, and Crane would be… well… disappointed if they had been euthanized by animal control or hit by a Mack truck or something similarly anticlimactic.

Like recovering in Arkham and moving to the Gotham suburbs.

"Hey! Scarecrow!"

Oh, wonderful. Someone was banging on his door now. Once, Crane reflected, he would have snapped something sarcastic and bitter, or shot the man a terrifying glare, or horrified him into insanity with mere words and then cackle about it for weeks… but today, he simply didn't have the energy. Or the Scarecrow. But that was only temporary, he reminded himself; sooner or later, Scarecrow would break through, and then God help the—

"Ya gonna eat, or ya gonna sit there staring at me?" the orderly barked. "Get over here!"

Jonathan Crane stood up slowly and shakily made his way to the door. He had to speak with Dr. Abraham about reducing the dosage… the dizziness and the shaking were simply unbearable, not to mention uncontrollable and therefore embarrassing. He would have been furious, if he'd had the energy. As it was, he settled for a hopefully scathing glare at the orderly's shape and retrieved the tray.

"Corn on the cob today," the guard remarked jeeringly. "Just what a Scarecrow likes, eh?"

Crane ignored him. He'd heard that joke—or a variant thereof—thousands of times. Of course, Scarecrow usually exacted revenge on the speaker, or at least tried to. At the moment, however, Scarecrow was not speaking and Crane had exhausted his energy supply by his trip to the door, so he merely shrugged it off and pushed at the unappetizing food with a plastic spork, moving it around the plate so it at least looked like he'd eaten something.

If only he could bring himself to care.

After a few minutes, the orderly came into the cell to remove the tray and give Crane his medication. Apathetic as he might be, Crane still had enough sense to refuse those cursed little pills. If he could just go off them, forever, he felt certain that Scarecrow would return. The doctors felt certain of this as well, and injected him will three different syringes before leaving him in relative peace.

Crane lay down on the bed and waited for the sedatives to take effect. Even after years of living in Arkham, he still found it nigh-impossible to sleep in the horrendous noise. People screaming, people swearing, people singing… _the Joker's high, maniacal laugh, the light-hearted banter between Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn, Scarface threatening someone with a one-way ride or concrete shoes, Jervis Tetch's off-key rendition of the Mock Turtle's song…_

Jonathan Crane's eyes slowly closed and he rolled over, his back to the door. He did not dream.


	3. Chapter 3

The interior of Dr. Henry Abraham's office was calculated to be comforting; the walls were a soft, muted beige instead of the standard asylum white, the lighting a warmer tone than the harsh fluorescent bulbs outside, the bookshelves a rich chestnut color and lined with real books to give a homey feel… Dr. Crane was not impressed. He had used similar ploys to gain the trust of his colleagues and students at the university, and was familiar with the psychology behind a pseudo-comforting environment. The softer colors and lighting, paired with the quality of the furniture, the paintings and small photographs on the walls, the small "office toys" littering the desk were all designed to give the office a sense of personalization or inhabitation, hopefully triggering the patient's association with home and safety.

Unfortunately for Dr. Abraham, Jonathan Crane thought snidely, _he_ had no such associations and was therefore above such childish tricks.

Crane came in slowly, flanked by two burly men in white. He glanced at them, fully aware that their muscular brawn made his own body look thin and spindly in comparison, and idly wondered if Arkham recruited its orderlies from the same place the Rogues hired their henchmen. Certainly these two looked big and stupid enough to serve as hired thugs. Once Scarecrow returned, perhaps he could have a small discussion with them about—

"Good afternoon, Dr. Crane," a smooth, middle-aged voice interrupted him.

Crane looked up slowly, shooting what he hoped was an intimidating glare in the psychiatrist's direction. At least Dr. Abraham had the sense to call him Dr. Crane and not _Jonathan. _Nobody except the new interns dared call the ex-professor by his first name any longer. Scarecrow had seen to that.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Abraham continued, leaning back in his black leather chair.

Crane remained silent, let the orderlies escort him to the couch. How he despised these patronizing niceties. Exhausted though he was, he refused to lie down on the couch. Even in his drugged, almost-helpless condition, he retained enough sense of pride to avoid _that. _It was bad enough that a short walk from his cell to the doctor's office drained his body of energy; revealing the fact that he was exhausted, physically and mentally, would be paramount to admitting his weakness to the doctor. Actually, he reflected slowly, his mind seemed to be working much quicker than last night. He'd tried pacing the room despite his lack of energy, hoping to work some of the morning dose out of his system. It seemed to be working.

"Dr. Crane, the orderlies tell me you haven't been eating," Dr. Abraham stated.

Crane looked up, his vision blurring slightly, and regarded Dr. Abraham with a cold stare.

"Is that true?" Dr. Abraham pressed.

Resisting the temptation to roll his eyes, Crane shrugged faintly.

"Why?"

"Why not?" Crane muttered, taking a page from the Mad Hatter's book.

"We've discussed this before," the psychiatrist replied, taking off his glasses and rubbing his temple. "If you want to get better, you need to communicate with me. Playing games or avoiding the question won't lead to…"

Crane tipped his head back, focused on the corner of the bookshelf in the far corner, and tuned Dr. Abraham voice out. He'd heard this lecture countless times over the years—you need to communicate, the session is about you and not me, preying on an orderly's phobias is not acceptable behavior, blah blah blah. It usually ended with some sort of privilege revocation, or threat thereof. Unfortunately for Dr. Abraham, Crane could no longer bring himself to care about anything except getting off those cursed meds and releasing Scarecrow. And he highly doubted that would be an offered privilege.

"…don't start eating again, we will have to insert a feeding tube," Dr. Abraham concluded, a faint undertone of worry in his voice. "Is that what you want?"

Crane moved his eyes from the bookshelf to his psychiatrist.

"I don't care," he said simply.

Dr. Abraham opened his mouth again, then shut it. He appeared to be thinking, Crane observed. How wildly fascinating. Crane transferred his attention to the floor in front of him. He should be thinking of a plan. Yes, that's what he needed. A plan. A plan to find Scarecrow again. He considered this for a moment. That would mean finding some way to avoid taking—

"Do you want to get better?" Dr. Abraham inquired.

Mildly irritated at the interruption, Crane slowly brought his eyes back up. Of course he wanted to get better, although he doubted his definition of "better" coincided with his psychiatrist's. Getting better meant reviving Scarecrow… Scarecrow would know what to do. He always did. He would probably find a way to escape Arkham, hole up in the city someplace—Jonathan wrinkled his nose; he always hated the dingy, filthy dens his alter seemed to revel in dragging him to—and engineer a brilliant plan to resume his fear-inducing experiments on Gotham. It would mean pain and cold and hunger and the annoyance of having to deal with thick-minded mob bosses and quite possibly he would be exposed to the toxin again and be dragged shrieking back to Arkham by the Batman—

"I don't know," Crane admitted. "I just…" he sighed. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"What doesn't matter?" Dr. Abraham said carefully. Crane barely spoke any more, and then in short, monosyllabic sentences. If Abraham could keep the patient talking, it could be an enormous step forward.

Crane shook his head wearily.

"You don't understand," he said, after a long moment of silence. "It's…" he sighed again.

Dr. Abraham surveyed his patient thoughtfully, choosing his words with care.

"Is this in any way related to the Joker's death?" he asked.

Crane's eyes snapped up to meet his, his face registering mild surprise. So it did, then. Dr. Abraham made a mental note of it, but remained still, as if afraid of frightening a wild animal.

"What… why would say that?" Crane asked. His voice was odd, tight. Inwardly, Dr. Abraham felt a surge of excitement. Now, if he could keep Crane focused and speaking…

"Did you consider the Joker a friend?" Dr. Abraham probed.

"Don't be stupid," Crane replied, with something that could be either a snort or a sigh. "But I need—"

His face suddenly went blank, and he dropped his eyes to the floor again.

"What do you need?"

Crane mumbled something under his breath and shook his head. Dr. Abraham looked at him closely. The man was staring off into space, his face expressionless as always. His eyes were unfocused, disconnected…

"Crane."

Dr. Abraham's voice interrupted Jonathan's train of thought, and he shifted his gaze to his psychiatrist in mild annoyance.

"We…" Dr. Abraham stopped, unsure of how far to go. "We were discussing your eating habits."

"Oh," Crane said flatly.

"Do you want to end up with a feeding tube?"

Crane shrugged, his eyes going back to something in the corner.

"Look at me, Dr. Crane," Dr. Abraham said. "Dr. Crane. Jonathan." Nothing. "Scarecrow."

Even that failed to trigger a response. Dr. Abraham heaved a long sigh.

"Well, that will be all for today," he said, pressing a button on his desk to summon the orderlies. "I guess we'll see each other on Thursday, Dr. Crane."

Jonathan Crane shrugged noncommittally, eyes still fastened on the bookcase corner as the orderlies led him away. Dr. Abraham watched him go, setting his glasses down and exhaling in frustration. They had been so close…

But there was something frightening in Crane's apathy. Dr. Abraham had been with the ex-professor for nearly three years, and seen everything from nursery rhymes screamed out like death threats to a sullen, sulking patient refusing to acknowledge his therapist's existence. Jonathan Crane was uncommunicative by nature, but this… this dullness, this lethargy, this utter lack of interest—in _anything_—was worrying, to say the least. It had been nearly a year since Dr. Victoria Strange had identified the "Scarecrow" persona in a hypnotherapy session, and a thoroughly drugged and hypnotized Jonathan had admitted it was indeed a separate, speaking mental voice. That had been the first of Dr. Abraham's real breakthroughs, the foundation of his career as a successful Arkham psychiatrist. Auditory hallucinations were nothing new in Arkham, but Jonathan Crane had indisputably been a master of his field and was therefore highly adept at hiding his illness. It took someone with skill and insight—and, Dr. Abraham was willing to admit, a certain measure of luck—to pick up on the disgraced doctor's secret. Unveiling the Scarecrow's well-hidden schizophrenia had been the first step towards healing; unfortunately, the patient was far from happy about the discovery of his illness, and had fought tooth and nail—sometimes literally—throughout the entire treatment program. It hadn't been easy, but through a combination of hypnotherapy, electroconvulsive shock therapy, and a newly developed drug from Wayne Enterprises, they'd almost completely silenced the "Scarecrow."

Dr. Abraham frowned, turning an expensive marble pen over and over in his fingers. He hadn't expected Crane to show so much attachment to the "Scarecrow" voice. There had been several incidents, especially during the first few months of the treatment; four weeks into the program, Crane had woken up screaming that Scarecrow was gone and violently assaulted a nurse. It had happened again three months later, although fortunately an orderly had managed to restrain the mad doctor and thus avoid any serious injury. But the treatment had worked. There had been no more escape attempts, no attempts to terrify the guards—well, bar that rather unfortunate episode after the installation of the new bed. The mysterious and untraceable raids on the asylum's medical supply closet had abruptly halted. Crane had even stopped asking for his mask.

He'd also stopped asking for anything else. Dr. Abraham had chalked this up to temporary shock at losing Scarecrow's voice. However, it hadn't worn off as he'd expected; if anything, it had intensified. And now Jonathan Crane had stopped eating… Dr. Abraham shook his head. Occasionally, he did see a schizophrenic who missed the voices, but not to this extent. Perhaps Crane was lacking stimulation, human interaction. That could be amended. He scribbled some notes—_put him back in the rec room, let him eat with the other patients. Make sure he eats._

Dr. Abraham glanced at his watch, suddenly realizing that he'd used up the rest of Crane's session. Carefully replacing the notes in Crane's file, he set it aside and reached for the file of his next patient. It was slightly thicker than Crane's—better documentation of early childhood—and bore a thick Sharpie reminder that **PATIENT MUST BE ISOLATED FROM THE JOKER AT ALL TIMES.** Dr. Abraham flipped it open, drew out a clean sheet of paper, and pressed the intercom button on his desk.

"Could you please bring in Miss Quinzel?"


	4. Chapter 4

Dr. Abraham glanced over Harleen Quinzel's file, noting the many yellow Post-It notes in multiple styles of handwriting. Most read something along the lines of "IN NO CIRCUMSTANCES is Harley to share a cell with the Joker", "Patient should be restricted to women's cafeteria from now on", or "Group therapy will not work with Harley & Joker." Dr. Abraham adjusted his glasses thoughtfully. Everyone in Arkham, if not all of Gotham, knew the story of Harley Quinn. It had become a horror story told around the coffee machine to new interns, a grim warning to all would-be Joker analysts, and in some wings, an oft-corrupted urban legend involving Joker gas, chocolate, and a single red rose.

But now the Joker was dead. Dr. Abraham couldn't resist a brief smile at the thought, both out of relief and anticipation. With Joker out of the way, it was both possible and probable that Harleen Quinzel would make real progress. Of course, there would need to be an appropriate period of mourning and recovery—

"No! I won't let you! You're all big, dumb meanies, and I hate you!" an unnaturally high voice exclaimed. "Eenie, meany, miney, moe, catch an orderly by the toe—"

"Hey, stop that!"

Dr. Abraham looked up to see the two orderlies on duty "escorting" a wriggling, sniffling woman into the office. Her long blonde hair had been swept back into two long ponytails high on her head, giving her an artificially girlish appearance. But her face bore all the roughness of forty years, compounded with twenty years of life with an abusive clown; there were furrows in her forehead and lines around her eyes, both from care and laughter. Dr. Abraham also noticed a faint splash of scar tissue on her left cheek, a ghostly outline against pale skin. He frowned, flipped to the front of the file, and studied the asylum photograph of Harley Quinn from her last… incarceration. No scar.

"Whatcha lookin' at, doc?" Harley asked, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger.

Her voice had changed, Dr. Abraham noted; it had deepened and coarsened, forcing her to raise it higher than usual.

"How are you feeling, Miss Quinzel?" he queried.

Wrong question. Immediately, two blues eyes filled up with tears, and Harley collapsed on Dr. Abraham's desk, sobbing violently into her arms. Between sobs, Dr. Abraham could make out the words "dead" and "puddin.'"

"Did you really care for him?" Dr. Abraham asked gently.

Harley shot up, tear-streaked face contorted in an expression of intense grief and anger. It was an expression so unlike Harley Quinn…

"You don't understand!" Harley bawled. "_None _of you understand! He was my puddin'! He loved me, an'… an' he kept me safe, an' he gave me presents, an' he made me laugh, an' he was perfect! An' now he's _gone!"_

Once more, she collapsed on the desk, weeping loudly and stormily. Dr. Abraham patted her shoulder sympathetically, rummaging in his desk with the other hand for a box of Kleenex.

"Harley," he said, offering a handful of tissues. "I want to understand. You must have loved the Joker very much."

Harley grabbed the tissues and blew her nose loudly.

"Thad's right," she sniffled.

"Can you please explain to me… what exactly made Joker so perfect to you?"

Harley blew her nose again, drew in a long shuddering breath, and gestured as if to speak. She opened her mouth, but seemed unable to talk, swallowing hard several times before shaking her head silently.

"It's all right, you don't have to tell me now," Dr. Abraham said soothingly. "We can talk about something else."

"But nothing else _matters!" _Harley wept. "You just don't understand! It's like… it's like, one minute everything's wonderful, an', an' beautiful, an' perfect, and then you step back into Kansas an' all of a sudden everything's just black and white after all… you don't understand, none of you!"

Dr. Abraham nodded sympathetically and offered more tissues, waiting until Harley's sobs had abated somewhat before speaking.

"I know," he said confidentially. "Everyone else here thinks that the Joker was too good for you. They don't understand."

"It's horrible, doc, and—wait, what?" Harley jerked her head up.

Dr. Abraham shrugged, feigning innocence.

"I know, it really is horrible what some people say," he said. "But I try not to judge. They just don't understand, and ignorance is a terrible thing."

"But what are they saying?"

For a moment, Harley's fake, bubbly front slipped, and Dr. Abraham concealed a smile at hearing her natural voice.

"We don't need to talk about it if it upsets you," he said, letting Harley's file fall closed. "We could talk about something else. For instance, how did you get that scar on your face?"

"No, I wanna talk about what you said!" Harley insisted. Her hand instinctively flew to her cheek. "What are they sayin' about me? That I'm not good enough for him? Is that what you said?"

Dr. Abraham kept his expression neutral.

"I'm afraid," he said carefully, "spreading rumors is highly—"

"Well, it's not true!" Harley snapped. She sat straight up in the chair, arms crossed defensively over his chest. "Mistah J loved me. And I did a heck of a lot for him, too. We were perfectly happy together, doc. It was just like a storybook."

"Oh, I agree," Dr. Abraham nodded. "I'm not the one saying—"

"Sayin' what? Go ahead and say it!"

"Well," the doctor hazarded, "it's… well, you have to understand, he _was _the Clown Prince of Crime."

"Yeah? An' I'm his Harley. What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! He was a very… powerful… man. Charismatic, cunning, dangerous, fearless…" he glanced up at Harley, still watching him narrowly. "He could have had anyone he wanted, you know."

"Oooh! You! I know what you're trying to do!" gasped Harley. "You're bad-mouthing Mistah J, you're hopin' I'm gonna get mad when you say all that horrible stuff about him!" Her face was darkening, and she drew herself up, her hands balling into fists. "Well... you're darn right!"

Dr. Abraham gaped slightly as Harley Quinn stood up, towering over him. She glared at him and drew in breath like an angry mother bear about to charge.

"Now you listen to me," she snapped. "Joker and I loved each other. Deeply. He cared for me, and I cared for him. He kept me safe, and he kissed me, and _he loved me._ You don't have to believe it, but it. Is. One. Hundred. Per. Cent. True."

"Ah," Dr. Abraham said. "Um… what about the time when he inherited several million dollars and left you in Arkham?" Flipping open the file, he held up a picture of a girl in heavy makeup and a harlequin costume. "Instead of breaking you out, he hired this woman…"

"Give me that!" shrieked Harley, snatching the photograph from Dr. Abraham and ripping it in half. "That was a joke. He apologized."

"Or what about the time he pushed you out of a window for capturing Batman?" pressed Dr. Abraham.

"Oh, you-!" Harley sputtered. "Red's always harpin' on that, ya know? She says it's proof he's bad for me! But he's perfect!"

"Interesting. But didn't it ever occur to you that the Joker might be trying to get _rid _of you?" Dr. Abraham asked calmly. "That he might be a far more successful criminal on his own than with you tagging along? That you, Miss Quinzel, might be a _liability?"_

That did it. Harley's face went completely white, and when she spoke, it was without a trace of the high, fake harlequin voice.

"Listen to me, Dr. Abraham," she hissed. "I came closer to capturing Batman than Joker _ever_ did. The Bat himself admitted as much. In fact, I was never _once _the cause of our capture, not _once! _Well," she admitted reluctantly, "except for that one time. But I had to do it then, to save him. He would have blown himself up without a second thought." She reflected quietly for a moment. "He liked it when I ruined his plans, too," she said, half to herself. "He was good to me—then."

Dr. Abraham shrugged.

"And the numerous times he sold you out to escape Arkham?" he asked.

Harley Quinn turned to him with a bright, unsettling smile.

"That's all part of the joke, doc," she said, her voice high and bubbly. "Dontcha get it?"

"I'm sorry," Dr. Abraham replied, his heart sinking at the return of the fake voice. "Maybe you could explain it?"

"Nu-uh. First rule o' comedy. If you have to explain a joke, it's not funny."

"If no one gets the joke, it's not funny either," he countered.

"Not true. It's funny 'slong as _you _get the joke!" Harley informed him, bouncing slightly on the chair. "And I get it, doc. I really do."

And Harley Quinn broke down laughing, laughing and crying at the same time, and pounding her fist on the wooden desk until the orderlies came and took her away, wrapping her arms around her to keep her from hurting herself. Behind her, Dr. Abraham sighed and shook his head. It was a pity… it was truly a pity… he rapidly made a few notes to himself, adding a quick reminder to replace the picture of Fake Harley, and closed Harley Quinn's file for the day.


	5. Chapter 5

That evening, instead of bringing Jonathan Crane's meal to him as usual, the orderlies entered the ex-doctor's cell and began shackling him to a wheelchair. Crane watched apathetically, allowing himself to be chained. Really, they were stupid. As if _he _could possibly pose a threat in his current state.

"What are you doing?" Crane asked dully.

"Doctor's orders, Jonathan," a female voice replied.

Crane looked up slowly to see a new nurse—oh, how lovely—standing over him and giving him a motherly smile. He'd seen this type before; it made his blood boil. Frankly, he was surprised they allowed her to work with him at all. The last nurse who'd dared to call him Jonathan…

"I prefer Dr. Crane," he replied archly.

"Of course, dearie," she nodded. "Roll up your sleeve."

Crane's jaw clenched. _Dearie? _No one—but no one—called him _dearie. _Well, perhaps Scarecrow had said it once or twice, he reflected. But there was quite a difference between one's terrifying alter ego and a plump, motherly nurse preparing to give one a series of mind-numbing injections. His mind had just begun to clear, too…

"Wait," Crane said, struck with a sudden inspiration. The nurse stopped in the act of swabbing his thin arm with alcohol and fixed a puzzled gaze on him. "I—I'll take them. By mouth, I mean. I don't want any more injections."

"Hmm, well, you'll have to talk to you doctor about that," the nurse replied.

"No. Wait." Crane ground his teeth together, forced himself to sound humble and weak and—he didn't want to say it. "_Please. _I don't like the needles."

That much was true. It was bad enough having his mind reduced to a slow-moving mess and shaking visibly in front of the orderlies; having a needle stuck in his arm every morning and evening wasn't exactly comfortable. He, of course, could endure much more pain than a mere _needle, _but he certainly didn't enjoy the sensation of cold metal sliding into his skin.

"Well…" the nurse drew back, wavering.

"I'll… I'll eat something," Jonathan muttered.

The nurse withdrew.

"I'll get the doctor."

Crane waited, staring at the floor. The first step to bringing Scarecrow back would be, logically, to stop taking the medication, and the first step to that would be to get them back into pill form. He wouldn't be able to stop taking them today, nor the day after, nor the day after that. But eventually…

The nurse returned, heels clacking loudly on the concrete floor. Behind her, Dr. Abraham came striding down the hall, unable to conceal the relief—or was it excitement?—on his face.

"Dr. Crane," he said, before the nurse could blurt out another patronizing pet name, "I'm glad to see you've decided to eat again."

Jonathan raised his head and stared at him, expressionless. _And? Oh, he was waiting for a response._ Sullenly, Crane nodded his head.

"We can't get the pills right away," Dr. Abraham explained, "so we'll give you your medication when you get back from the dining room."

Crane almost chuckled at that. _Dining room? _They all knew it was nothing more than a cafeteria, barer and bleaker than most prison lunch rooms. Then it sunk in. _No medication. _It would buy him another hour of clear thought… for the first time in months, Jonathan Crane had to suppress the urge to smile. Things were finally beginning to improve.

They were wheeling him down the hallway now, he vaguely noted, and the other inmates were staring at him from behind glass walls. He didn't care. It wasn't as if he would have recognized any of them anyway.

They passed through the inner door; Crane indifferently noted that it had been replaced. He didn't remember who had finally broken it, but it didn't really matter anyway. The new door was a dark metal—probably some sort of alien substance designed to withstand any amount of force—with heavy, dungeon-style hinges. _So much for an atmosphere of healing, _Crane thought cynically. They had to wait for several minutes while the massive doors were swung open, swinging oh-so-slowly on cumbersome metal hinges. A light tapping to his right caught Jonathan Crane's attention, and he slowly turned to see who—or what—was trying to get his attention.

In the cell closest to the door, a tall, spare man with a shock of dirty blonde hair stood leaning against the glass, his face stretched into a malicious grin. His frame was extraordinarily thin and wiry, not the gaunt, bony look of Crane's own body, but it was certainly nothing… oh. Crane noticed what the man was grinning about. His left arm had been twisted at an impossible angle, wrapped around his body and the wrist turned almost one hundred and eighty degrees from its natural pose so the man could knock on the glass. Crane took it in with mild indifference. So the man was a contortionist. His eyes slid to the plate outside the cell—PATIENT 0149320 PETER MERKEL.

Peter Merkel grinned even wider at Jonathan Crane and slowly brought his left leg up, hooked it around his neck, and wriggled his right shoulder through the loop. His right arm hung sickeningly slack and boneless as the man tied himself in a knot. Crane merely stared at him, icy blue eyes boring into Merkel's brown ones.

_Peter Merkel shows signs of sociophobia, autophobia, and classic narcissist behavior. Like… _Crane swallowed… _like Edward Nygma, he seeks attention from others through deviant behavior, in this case contorting his body into positions designed to evoke shock, horror, and disgust. _Crane stopped. _Amazing how much a little exercise improves one's mental condition._

Merkel's grin lessened as Crane failed to respond, and he shot the ex-professor a venomous glare as the orderlies pushed the wheelchair through the door.

The cafeteria was a cacophony of ugly sound. The familiar lunch room roar, mixed with grunted insults, threats, and the occasional scream assaulted Crane's ears, making him long for the silent and isolation of his cell. The orderlies wheeled him into a corner, a "special" table usually reserved for Joker, and began unchaining his arms. Crane waited patiently until they left him before hazarding a glance at the lunch room. A few inmates had noticed him, and were shoving each other, whispering, and pointing his direction. At one point, he would have been insulted. At another, he would have been flattered. He glimpsed a few inmates turning pale and quickly averting eye contact with him, but their fear brought him no joy. If anything, he felt slightly embarrassed.

_It's temporary. Just temporary. _

There was a slight movement at his elbow, and a plastic lunch tray was slipped onto the table, the nurse handing him a "safe" spork. Oh yes. He'd promised to eat, hadn't he? Jonathan Crane eyed the unappetizing matter with disgust. He would have liked nothing better than to carefully rearrange it, perhaps eating a few, obvious bites, and go back to his cell. But eating the food was the first step in his plan (finally, he had a plan) to bring back Scarecrow. Crane scooped up a shapeless blob of thick, pasty mush—with a little imagination, they could be mashed potatoes—and began to eat.

Suddenly, the lunchroom became very quiet. Crane ignored it, focusing on keeping the repulsive substance down and capturing small, sodden green peas with his spork. Suddenly, the tray was snatched out from under his nose, and there was a clatter of plastic on concrete. Crane raised his eyes slowly and deliberately, unsure if he should be angry at the disturbance or thankful for the sudden deliverance from dinner.

"So you're the one they call the Scarecrow," a deep voice sneered at him. Crane calmly looked the man over, observing the man's arrogant expression, over-confident posture, and muscular size with a detached air. A dark blue-black bruising above the man's right eye, coupled with a faint pink stripe running over the collarbone, told Crane everything he needed to know. The man was a supervillain who'd been dragged in by the Batman.

"My name is Dr. Crane," Jonathan said quietly. "Is your mask made of nickel?"

The big man looked confused for a fraction of a second before his eyes narrowed, his dis-detector going off.

"Whatchu talking about?"

"Your mask," Crane repeated calmly. "Is it made of nickel?" The man simply glared at him. "You have a rash," Crane pointed out, "from your mask. Nickel... is the most common skin irritant. Why do you wear a metal mask, anyway? Are you _afraid_ of having your identity revealed?"

Crane savored the word, silently hoping for Scarecrow to resurface. But the man scowled at him, scooting closer, invading Crane's personal space. It was a common fear tactic, one Jonathan had used himself, and he merely regarded the inmate with disinterested blue eyes.

"Look, buddy, if I were you, I'd drop the name," the inmate said, sounding more and more like a high school jock picking on the new kid. Crane suppressed a grimace. "You're about as scary as a wet paper bag."

Crane sighed, a sound of mild irritation. He carefully removed his glasses, folded them deliberately, and said,

"What is your name?"

If the room had been quiet before, it was completely silent now. Crane was vaguely aware of a ring gathering around him, but ignored it. Hopefully, he could intimidate the would-be bully enough to leave him alone, finish whatever food he had left, and then he could return to his cell. Scarecrow could deal with the insult later. The big inmate grinned, leaned back in his chair…

"The name's Firefly," he said. "And don't you forget it."

Crane planned on forgetting it very quickly. The man's overweening, supercilious attitude irked him; he didn't have either the time or energy to bother terrifying him, so why didn't the big thug leave him alone?

"Interesting choice of name," Crane remarked. "You remind me of a friend of mine... Killer Moth."

"That mutated freak? Why?"

"Because," Crane said dryly. "Along with mosquitoes, gnats, and mayflies, moths and fireflies are the natural prey of bats."

The big man turned beet red and reached across the table—

"Lynns!" a guard shouted, and suddenly there were two orderlies on either side of Crane, one dragging Lynns away from him and the other shoving him roughly back against the wheelchair. It hurt more than it should have. Crane exhaled slowly, readied himself for a warning cuff and accompanying lecture. To his surprise, it never came.

"Get him outta here," the guard closest to him snapped, and Crane felt himself being wheeled back towards the cellblock. As he went, he caught a brief portion of the other guard's speech, addressed to Firefly, aka Mr. Lynns.

"…heck were you thinking? You have any idea what Scarecrow does to people?"

Jonathan Crane settled himself back into the wheelchair. Good. Hopefully, his reputation would be enough to discourage Mr. Lynns from any future… inconveniences. He wondered if the newspaper would be waiting for him at the cell. He felt just awake enough to start reading again—no, wait, he was taking his medication when he got back to the cell. Crane idly wondered if—

"Professor Crane!" squealed a too-high voice. Crane cringed, whipped his head around too quickly, and saw Harley Quinn standing a few feet away from him, a nurse on either side of her. The orderly pushing Crane's wheelchair tensed at the ex-professor's irritated expression, glancing nervously at the guards.

"Yes, child?" Crane asked patiently, causing both orderly and guard to relax.

"Ooh, Professor Crane, I haven't seen you in _forever!" _Harley gushed, setting her tray down and rushing forward to hug him.

Crane, having been subjected to Harley's hugs before, held himself upright and waited for it to end.

"And, err, how are you?" he asked as she finally pulled away.

"The docs have been real mean to me," Harley pouted. She glanced over her shoulder, making sure the orderly's eyes were elsewhere, and when she turned back, the mask cracked a little. _"I miss him." _

"Yes…" Crane patted her hand awkwardly. "I'm… sorry…"

He never knew what to say at times like this. A grief, a loss, a death? He'd never experienced one that affected him (negatively, that was). From Bo Griggs to that insufferable businessman (whatever his name had been), deaths had always been a time of celebration for Jonathan Crane. They marked the end of a tormentor, an oppressor, or a fear. They set him free.

Theoretically, Joker's death should have triggered similar emotions. The relationship between the Joker and Jonathan Crane had been one of barely-concealed mutual disdain. The relationship between the Joker and the Scarecrow had been one of open warfare. Joker had gone out of his way to humiliate Crane far too many times. _"Lighten up, Spooky! Why so serious?" "I just can't resist, Ichabod; yer the perfect straight man!" "Ya know what yer problem is, doc? You're insane! Hahahaha!" _Crane clenched his fists, recalling the time Joker had crashed one of his "poison-all-of-Gotham" schemes and turned it into a fairly harmless (if annoying and slightly disturbing) public laugh-fest. Sometimes their "business meetings" culminated in violence, with Crane or Scarecrow always on the losing end. No, Jonathan Crane did not like the Joker. Had not liked the Joker, he corrected himself.

He should be happy the clown was dead, the same way he should be taking pleasure in scaring the bejeebers out of several guards and quite obviously shaking Lynns. He should be happy.

Crane shook his head and looked down at Harley's hand. It was bony, wrinkled, seamed with veins. The skin felt thin and fragile, vulnerable; it would be so easy to hurt. But it was also warm to the touch. He should be happy...

"Um… Professor?"

Crane looked up.

"Yer kinda… holdin' my hand," Harley said, a look of innocent confusion on her face.

Crane blushed and quickly let her go. That was all he needed—the guards and nurses spreading seedy rumors about him and Miss Quinn, the other inmates taunting them, crude epithets springing up in the showers and on the bottom of lunch trays… _and no one to protect him, either_…

"You have my apology," Crane said. "My mind was... elsewhere."

Harley just smiled and bounced on the balls of her feet.

They were re-shackling his arms now, wheeling him through the white hallways to his cell. Ah yes, and his plan to invoke Scarecrow once more had been put in motion. All he had to do now was be a good, cooperative patient, take his medication faithfully for a few weeks, and then…

"Jonathan! How nice to see you again!" the nurse exclaimed brightly.

Jonathan Crane gritted his teeth and held out his hand for the pills.


	6. Chapter 6

Harley Quinn smiled to herself as Crane's wheelchair vanished through the heavy cafeteria doors, the orderly shooting a quick, nervous glance back. It was so—so comforting to find someone here that she knew, someone familiar. She would have added, _someone unchanged, _but she had seen the hollow look in Crane's eyes. He looked different, somehow; older, of course, and paler. Gee Ma_rie_ he was skinny, too… didn't Professor Crane know the difference between a scarecrow and a skeleton? He looked so bony and pale, almost like a ghost. She wondered what would happen to scarecrows when they died. Could scarecrows turn into ghosts? Professor Crane would prob'ly be happy with that, scarin' people for the rest of eternity…

A sudden movement at Harley's elbow made her jump. She turned to see a woman staring up at her with meek, unassuming eyes. Short brown hair swept away from her face—it was such a very ordinary face—and she regarded Harley quietly, standing so close she was almost touching the harlequin.

"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to sneak up on people?" Harley scolded. "Nearly made me jump out of my skin, you did!"

The woman merely continued to look at Harley, soft brown eyes staring into Harley's blue ones.

"Well, why don't you say something?" Harley prompted. "Cat got yer tongue?"

Still nothing.

"Hey. Maybe I should introduce myself. Harley Quinn, but you can call me Harley. Everybody does," Harley said, sticking out a hand. "What's yer name?"

The woman's eyes widened slightly, and she spoke up quickly.

"I am Dr. Anne Carver, and I have worked at Arkham Asylum for nearly five years," she said in a low, husky voice.

"Former shrink, huh? I guess we have something in common, then!" Harley exclaimed happily. "I used to work here too, before I met… Mistah J…" Harley's blue eyes filled with tears, and she suddenly burst into tears, the lunch tray clattering to the floor.

The brown-haired woman made no move either to comfort Harley or pick up the fallen tray. She remained standing, hazel eyes fixed on Harley's weeping form as the orderlies rushed in to separate the two women, walk Harley to another table, and clean up the harlequin's mess. Once Quinn had recovered herself somewhat and received a new tray of food, the woman quietly sat by her and began eating slowly, never taking her eyes from Harley Quinn.

"I gotta tell ya, Annie—I can call ya Annie, right?" Harley sniffled, poking at the food with a plastic spork. "Fits ya well enough. I gotta tell ya, though, Arkham just won't be the same without my wonderful Puddin'…"

"Who is your Pudding?" the woman asked in a low, steady voice.

"The Joker, nitwit," a large, scarred woman with a butch haircut interrupted roughly. "Don't ya know nothing?"

"Yeah, he's the Joker," Harley said, wiping tears from her eyes. "And now he's dead! It's not _fair!" _More weeping and gnashing of teeth ensued.

"Who were you speaking with?" the brown-haired woman asked after a brief pause in the sobbing. "The man in the wheelchair."

"Huh? Oh, ya mean Professor Crane?" Harley sniffed, raising a tear-stained face.

"Scarecrow," the large woman interjected.

"Don't be silly! Professor Crane isn't Scarecrow!" Harley scoffed. "He needs the mask first, and some, um, some of that gas stuff, and a funny hat, and a big what-cha-ma-call-it thingummy on a stick…"

"Scythe," supplied the large inmate.

"Yeah, that's it! Scythe! Then he's all freaky an' scary an' everything, an' he sings creepy songs and freaks Batman out. Professor Crane…" Harley added, "Professor Crane, he's nice."

The large female grunted and raised an eyebrow before going back to her food, shoving over-crisp Texas toast and soggy peas into her mouth with all the grace of a bull elephant. Harley watched her eat with disgust.

"I tell ya what, Annie," she said, "some people got no class in here."

"Quinn!" an orderly barked. "Hurry up and eat! You're supposed to be back in your cell five minutes ago!"

Harley shot the offending orderly a comically angry look and picked up her spork obediently. Five minutes later, she stood up, a wide smile spreading across her face.

"Done!" she announced, throwing her hands up.

The orderly grunted and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Nurse is waitin'," he grumbled.

Harley Quinn crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip in a mock pout.

"Don't wanna go."

Rolling his eyes, the orderly grabbed Quinn by the shoulder and propelled her across the room and into the waiting arms of the new C-block nurse.

"Hello, dearie. Ready for your medication?" the nurse beamed.

Back at the table, the brown-haired, brown-eyed, extraordinarily ordinary woman stared at Harley, scrutinizing her thoughtfully. Running a tongue over her pale lips, she spoke up softly, her voice suddenly becoming unnaturally high and cheerful.

"Professor Crane, he's nice…"

* * *

I realize I'm introducing a lot of non-BTAS characters here; I promise there is a valid reason & they will follow the principle of Chekhov's gun (or rather, Chekhov's villain). However, I'll briefly explain them here:

Firefly/Garfield Lynns- Crane's new lunch buddy. He did not appear in Batman: the Animated Series because Warner Brothers specifically forbade the producers from using pyromaniac characters. (Which makes no sense to me; we can have a stick-thin ex-professor screaming "Worship me, you fools, worship me!" and a shipping magnate firmly convinced he is Zeus Almighty, but no flamethrower-wielding arsonists? Excuse me, but even the the comics, Firefly's "problems" are far outweighed by the delusions of people like Jervis Tetch, Maxie Zeus, or Harley Quinn.) He did show up in his most memorable costume in the cartoon spin-off "The Batman," and I'm basing Firefly off this version of Lynns. Lynns alludes to Killer Moth as "that mutated freak" because in "The Batman," Killer Moth starts out as a lame, weak, less-than-brilliant guy dressed as a moth until he is accidentally mutated into a giant, powerful, less-than-brilliant moth creature. Ironically, Firefly is later mutated as well later in the series, becoming the much more powerful (and insane) Phosphorus. Enough about Firefly.

Ragdoll/Peter Merkel- I'm also basing him off the "The Batman" version, with one slight exception: in the cartoon, Ragdoll shows no signs of mental instability, just wicked humor and a complete disregard of others' property rights. However, the DC comic version of Ragdoll is most certainly insane, and I sort of needed him in Arkham, so I merged the two. Ragdoll is triple-jointed and can squeeze through almost anything, even folding himself up into Penguin's top hat in one episode. He also did tend to, errr, "unsettle" his victims with painful and grosteque-looking contortions before stealing all their money. Scarecrow never appeared in "The Batman" series, and since Ragdoll's costume was made of patchy burlap (clears throat), many viewers mistook Ragdoll for our dear ol' Dr. Crane.

Jane Doe- if I explained exactly what Jane Doe does to her victims, the rating on this fic would go up faster than a helium balloon on a summer day in Texas. Suffice to say she chooses a victim, fixates on him/her until she (Doe) has memorized all their body language, facial expressions, vocal ranges, etc, and then kills them. Brutally. And tries to literally become them. In the Batman comics, Jane Doe stalks and murders her psychiatrist, Anne Carver, and for about two months is able to charade as Anne (actually helping some Arkham patients) before being found out, stripped of her... suit... and thrown back in a padded cell.

Many thanks to everyone who has commented so far.


	7. Chapter 7

"C'mon, Crane. Up. Oh, geez, he's really out of it."

The words sounded murky, far away, as if the speaker were underwater. Jonathan Crane tried to ignore them and go back to sleep. If he kept his eyes closed, he's stay warm and comfortable and safe, and maybe the voice would give up on him and let him be. He decided he liked being asleep better than anything else at the moment.

"Careful. He's pulled tricks before," a second voice warned. Much to Crane's dismay, it was becoming louder, sharper, like an image coming into focus. It meant he was waking up, and he hated waking up.

"Ya think he's faking?" the first voice said, sounding almost hopeful.

There was a sharp slap against his thin shoulders, and Crane couldn't hold back a groan.

"Nah, he's coming around. C'mon, Professor, up and at 'em."

"I think," Crane muttered, opening his eyes blearily, "you are the first person to ever encourage me to get 'up and at them.'"

The orderly's face, far too large and sickeningly close, seemed to waver before Crane's eyes. Something small and light was shoved into Crane's right hand, a meaty fist closing around his to keep him from spilling it.

"You wanted these pills so bad, now take 'em."

Oh. Pills. Medication. Crane's mind struggled to grasp the ramifications… he should be taking it, yes, for now, which meant lifting his hand… wait, first he had to see if it was the paper cup of pills or the paper cup of water. Forcing his eyes into focus, he stared down and saw a small Dixie cup with five different pills in it.

"Water," he managed to say.

The orderly chuckled.

"No can do, doc," he said, a trace of malice coming into his voice. "Haven't you heard about the drought? We're conserving water. We're all doing our part."

Which meant… Crane swallowed hard. He hated taking pills without medicine; they made him feel nauseous and sick to his stomach.

Wait.

Sick to his stomach.

Crane lifted the small cup, hand trembling slightly, and downed the contents. There was an exclamation from one of the orderlies, and Crane gave him a wide, sick smile.

"Holy #$%! He's gonna choke!"

Fighting back the gag reflex, Jonathan Crane opened his mouth for inspection. No pills here, gentlemen! One of them leaned in close, grabbing the ex-doctor's face in large, too-warm hands, and jerked it forward. Crane thought he would be sick right then and there.

"He did it. I don't believe it. Sick son of a…"

They couldn't be gone quickly enough. Crane didn't trust himself to move, to breathe even; the pills were not going to stay down, and he needed to wait until the orderlies were out of sight. He clenched his hands, fingernails digging into the dry skin, and counted slowly in his mind.

_One… two… three…_

The door to the cell clicked shut, and there was a soft _beep _as the sensor lock engaged.

…_seven… eight… nine…_

Footsteps echoed down the hall, _oh please, please hurry and get out of sight!_

…_twelve… thirteen…_

They were gone. Jonathan Crane dropped across the bed and retched. The pills came back up, along with what little food he'd eaten yesterday. Crane mentally thanked Firefly for interrupting his dinner; it would be that much easier to hide. Sitting up shakily, he took in deep, slow breaths, waiting for his vision to clear. Hopefully, no one had seen that little episode.

"Professor Crane! You all right?"

Oh, wonderful. Crane stiffened, his foggy mind straining for an explanation.

"Er… just fine, child," he lied, raising a bony finger to his lips. "Just a bit… tired."

Harley caught on immediately. She grinned and narrowed her eyes in a comical attempt to look secretive (or, Crane suspected, an attempt to look comically secretive), nodding at Jonathan like a high school girl promising not to tell.

"Okay, Professor," she said, walking back to her bed. "Just wanted ta make sure."

Crane almost groaned. Even in his less-than-brilliant state, he knew that Harley Quinn could not keep a secret. The week would not be out before either the Joker or Poison Ivy would be at his door, demanding a favor in exchange for silence.

No, they wouldn't. Crane swallowed painfully, watching Harley stretch (not so childlike any longer) and begin making her bed. Never mind that. Hopefully, Harley would be able to resist telling… Who would Harley tell? There were a few, a very few, of the others in Arkham, Crane knew, but he couldn't bring his mind to recall their names as yet. There was… Victor Fries. And… um… there were others, but he couldn't remember at the moment.

The orderlies were making their way back down Harley's side of the cellblock now, pushing that repulsive plastic cart behind them. It was old and stained and worn, aged to a pale yellow. Crane remembered when it had been new, when they had replaced the old stainless-steel carts after the Joker took out three guards with one and then used it as his personal go-kart out of Arkham. He hadn't bothered to take Harley along. Not that he usually did, anyway.

Harley was backing away from the orderlies, shaking her head and squinching her eyes tightly shut. Crane felt a slight twinge of sympathy despite himself. Hopefully the orderlies would at least allow Harley a cup of water. Of all the Rogues in Gotham, Harley was the least… Crane hesitated. He was going to say 'the least dangerous,' but a sudden image of a mallet-wielding Harley flanked by savage hyenas popped into his mind. Of all the Rogues in Gotham, Harley was the most innocent. Certainly, she'd had her bit of a rampage, but never on her own. Harley Quinn was dangerous enough, all right, as long as she had the so-called "love" of the Joker or the genuine support of Poison Ivy to motivate her. She was a bit like Tetch in that regard; deluded, but not… not evil. Not really. If anyone deserved to get force-fed dry pills, it was Joker. Or Scarecrow. Or Fries. Or Riddler. But not Harley.

The orderlies apparently thought differently. Crane turned away from the scene. Despite all the recent upheaval, at least one thing remained the same: the tendency of the strong to take advantage of the weak. Intellectually, it could easily explained by everything from a byproduct of the evolutionary process to a childhood trauma resulting in feelings of inadequacy. It still seemed wrong.

_There is one other constant. Fear. It can reduce the strongest to a quivering heap; it alone holds power over every man. Fear is a weapon, and a powerful one, Nature's way of providing the so-called weak with a means of defense, if one knows how to use it correctly. And I do. _

Ah, so his mind was returning. Crane arched an eyebrow and smiled thinly. He needed to conceal the pills on the floor as soon as the orderlies had passed on. In another hour or so, they would be by with breakfast—or, more likely, to take him to the cafeteria again—and the medication needed to completely out of sight by then.

Raising his head slightly, he risked a glance at Harley. She was slumped on the floor by her mattress, both hands clapped over her mouth and looking most uncomfortable.

"Breathe deeply, child," Crane advised. "Don't cover your mouth, it won't help."

Harley merely nodded and gagged painfully.

"Are the pills near the top of your esophagus?" Crane asked.

Harley nodded and held up a finger. Tipping her head back, she swallowed several times. Crane nodded, slightly impressed. It was too easy to forget that Harleen Quinzel was a doctor. Of course she would know the proper way to avoid vomiting…

"Thanks, Professor," Harley said, her voice strangely hoarse. "Ick, those taste horrible."

"What are they giving you?" Crane inquired, moving a stealthy hand towards the pills on his floor.

"Chlorpromazine and hydroxyzine," she replied wearily. "Why, what are they giving _you?"_

Crane shook his head.

"They won't tell me."

"Oh." Harley fell silent for a moment. "…want me to find out?"

Crane didn't have to consider it. He hated not knowing exactly what was going into his body—_knowledge is power—_and once he could put a name to the chemicals impairing his genius… Crane stopped, his brief flash of joy dissipating quickly. Harley would want something in return, wouldn't she?

"For what price?" he asked warily.

"Oh! Um… how 'bout you come talk to me in the rec room?" Harley said.

She would probably have some demand by then. But, on the other hand, Crane told himself, it couldn't be that bad. Harley Quinn was just simple enough to be trusted… most of the time.

"Certainly, child."

She smiled at him then, a small, tired smile that looked worn and tired and… real.

"Thanks, professor."

* * *

So... I know it sounds slightly cheesy to have to orderly swear in funny-papers symbols, but I'm trying to keep the rating close to what an episode of BTAS would have. So I'm avoiding graphic sex scenes, gore, and foul language. If it's just too corny, let me know.


	8. Chapter 8

The recreational room of Cellblock C, Arkham Aslyum, was not anywhere close to facilitating "recreation." At one point, there had been a chess table set up in one corner, as well as a beaten red sofa on which to watch TV. There had been several board games, a few decks of cards (missing the jokers, of course), and a pathetically beaten "library" of about twenty books. That was when everything was relatively new.

The chess set had been the first to go. Honestly, Jonathan didn't know why they had allowed it to remain for so long. The bishops were the perfect size and shape for jamming into an orderly's eye, and the kings needed only a few minutes' work to become small wooden shanks. Jervis Tetch had pitched a fit, spouting angry Carroll nonsense for hours; later, he'd re-made the chessmen from stolen puzzle pieces. A few years later, Two-Face had cracked the chessboard over a guard's head. That had been the end of that.

As for the board games… Crane shuddered. There was themed homicide, and then there was just gratuitous creepiness. Stories were still told about the things Joker had done with the little "Sorry" pieces, and those Battleship pegs… Crane could no longer look at children's board games without a strong feeling of revulsion.

Edward Nygma had slowly filched nearly all the cards during an elaborate escape attempt that involved a secret tunnel, a faked illness, and paying Killer Croc to start a riot. They'd never been replaced. As for the books… well, come to think of it, he was partly responsible for the disappearance of the books. With some reluctant help from Isely, he'd managed to produce a very crude, very weak version of his fear dust and coated the pages of certain books with the fine powder. Honestly, he'd only wanted to see Harvey Dent's reaction when the characters of his Stephen King novel came to life!

Now, the rec room was hardly more than a group cell. A few hard, plastic chairs had replaced the sofa, although Crane noticed that the ancient television was still nailed to the ceiling. Oh, and they had brought in a much-battered pool table to replace the board game table. It was a cheap plastic affair with heavy foam rubber around its legs and duct tape crisscrossing its pockets. Crane rolled his eyes. Right, because someone was _so _much less likely to get hurt with five-foot wooden poles and half-pound billiard balls than "Chutes & Ladders."

"Hey! Crane!" someone yelled.

Crane looked up to see Garfield Lynns, he of the nickel mask and poor table manners, standing a few feet away and brandishing a pool cue. Unconsciously, he took a half-step back, almost bumping into the orderly who had brought him into the rec room.

"Lynns," the orderly said warningly. "If ya know what's good for ya…"

Lynns grinned disarmingly, spreading his arms wide.

"Chill, man," he said. "No fear."

His eyes flicked to Crane with this last word; Crane merely stared at him, expressionless. Lynns scowled and turned back to the pool table.

"Professor Crane!"

Crane was suddenly enveloped in a warm, soft pair of arms. Only one person would dare to hug the Scarecrow, especially after the guard had just warned off a six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound gorilla for talking to him.

"Child! Let go! You are squeezing me to death!"

"Oh! Sorry, Professor Crane!" Harley immediately released her hold, and Crane gasped for air. "Annie 'n' me are about to watch TV. Wanna come?"

No, of course he didn't. Harley never watched anything but pathetically infantile cartoons, and he had far better things to do with the time _(if you knew Time the way I do, you wouldn't speak of him like that) _than watch—

"I suppose," Crane sighed, and allowed himself to be led to one of the hard-backed plastic chairs.

Harley bounced into the one next to him with a giggle, blonde hair flying. On his other side, a brown-haired woman gave him a calm once-over and went back to staring at Harley.

"Ooh, this one's the best," Harley said. "Look, here comes Sandy!"

Jonathan Crane stared at the television, watching a male sponge with eyelashes and a squirrel in a spacesuit cavort about what appeared to be an underwater hamburger joint. Who in their right mind would possibly want to watch this rubbish? Answer: no one in their right mind.

When a small cyclopic creature appeared on screen, piloting an enormous robot, Crane perked up a bit. It was easy to tell that this character was the villain—the other characters ran from him, screaming. Even the grumpy grey octopus, the most serious character Crane had seen so far, fled from the creature. The little bug laughed and began destroying the hamburger joint while a red crab cowered in a corner. But the next moment, the spacesuit squirrel returned with a mallet and began chasing the little monster. Crane grimaced; he knew the feeling all too well. Within a few moments, the squirrel pounded the creature flat and left it there.

"Ooh! That's right, Sandy! Get 'im!" Harley cheered.

"You're cheering for the _good guys?" _Crane asked, surprised out of his silence.

"Well, yeah, duh," Harley said, flipping blonde hair out of her eyes and shooting a quick look at Crane. "That's really what I like about cartoons, y'know. They're like fairy tales—everything comes out all right in the end. The way it's _s'posed _ta be. An' even if they do get blown up or whatever, they always come back. No one gets, like, hurt in cartoons. That, and they're _real_ funny."

"Dontcha get the joke?" came a voice from Crane's left, and he had to double check to make sure Harley had not spoken. Turning, he saw the brown-haired woman staring at him, face blank. But that had been Harley's voice!

"I didn't know you'd taken up ventriloquism," Crane said.

Harley giggled.

"Naw, I haven't seen Arnie for ages. This here's Annie. She's real quiet, but she's real good with voices and such-like. Hey, Annie, do the doctor voice again!"

The woman looked at Harley for a moment, and then said,

"There's no one in the whole world as wonderful as my Puddin'!"

Harley collapsed into guffaws. Crane frowned. There was something he didn't quite like about Annie. Certainly she looked harmless enough; she was quite plain, with one of those extremely average faces, but there was something vaguely unsettling about her.

"Hmph," Crane muttered, turning back to Quinn. "As you were saying... you enjoy watching cartoons because they make you feel safe?"

"Ab-so-lute-ly!" Harley sang, turning upside down in her chair. "Why? Tryin' ta analyze me again?"

"Of course," he said, before he could stop himself. "The mind is a fascinating thing. To explore its depths, test its limits… it's why I do what I do."

"Ya should talk ta Annie—she used ta be a shrink here," Harley suggested.

"Indeed," Crane murmured.

"Yeah, but then they just fired her fer no good reason an' threw her—ooh, look, it's Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy!"

Crane barely suppressed an eye roll.

"And, er, who are they?" he asked, for the sake of conversation.

"Aw, they used ta be superheroes, see," Harley explained. "But now they're just…" she appeared to be glued to the television, carefully avoiding eye contact, "old guys in a retirement home."

Crane understood that.

"Ah."

He waited for Harley to go on, but she remained silent.

"Are…" he cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is… do you intend to stay in Arkham?"

Harley looked down, becoming suddenly still for once.

"I don't know," she whispered.

* * *

Doctor Abraham rushed into the observation room, white coat flapping behind him. Getting a call from a guard was rarely a good thing; it usually meant that one's patient had had a seizure, started a fight, been injured in a fight, tried to escape, had succeeded in escaping, begun torturing a guard/orderly/doctor/inmate, taken hostages, or so forth.

"What's wrong?" he asked anxiously.

"Nothing, actually," the guard replied, pointing to one of the monitors. "Look."

It was a screen showing the interior of the recreational room. A few inmates were grouped around the pool table, cues in hand. Dr. Abraham frowned when he recognized Garfield Lynns among them. After the incident in the cafeteria, Lynns and Crane were supposed to be completely isolated from each other. Then he saw the small group in front of the television, and his eyebrows rose in astonishment. Harley Quinn was crying, and Jonathan Crane was… he blinked twice… patting her on the shoulder.

"What is he saying?" Dr. Abraham asked. "Turn up the volume."

"Um, the sound feed's not working right now," the guard said apologetically.

"Did he make her cry?"

"Don't think so."

Dr. Abraham nodded, scribbling something down in his notebook.

"Have they been… talking?"

"Oh, yeah."

_"He's_ been talking?"

"Yeah. Something wrong?"

"No…" Dr. Abraham paused for a moment, watching as Harley suddenly hugged Crane. He stiffened slightly, patted her back awkwardly, and said something to her. The doctor shook his head. Amazing.

Then he noticed the slim figure in the chair to Crane's left.

"Who's that?" he inquired.

"Oh." The guard made an expression of disgust. "It's that woman, the one who impersonated Dr. Carver. Jane Doe."

"Yes…" Dr. Abraham's eyes narrowed. "Hmm. I may have to speak with Dr. Robinson about this."

* * *

_Jonathan Crane stared at the screen… _He was watching SpongeBob Squarepants. I know, pretty obvious, but I just wanted to cite it correctly. I don't own SpongeBob, Sandy, Squidward, Plankton, Mermaid Man, or Barnacle Boy.

_I haven't seen Arnie for ages… _A nod to the DC Comicverse, in which Harley and Arnold Wesker are good friends (she even develops a rivalry with the second Ventriloquist).

_It's why I do what I do. _This quote comes from "Batman Begins." I don't own the movie either, but I do like it.

Muchos gracias to everyone who has reviewed so far.


	9. Chapter 9

"No, I don't think Jane Doe is fixating on Harleen Quinzel," Dr. Nestor scowled over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses. "Dr. Robinson, believe me when I say that Jane and I are making enormous progress in our sessions. She's become much more open, more cheerful… we've completely worked out the 'Anne Carver' personality, and I really think we're starting to see the real Jane Doe emerge."

"Or you're starting to see her absorb Harley Quinn's personality," countered Dr. Abraham. "Look at the surveillance tapes. Jane Doe sits with Quinn—"

"And it's Har_leen _Quin_zel, _not Harley Quinn," Dr. Nestor interrupted. Her thick, sharp lips curved into an ugly frown, heavy lipstick accenting the harsh curve. "You of all people should know that acknowledging a delusional criminal's persona is—"

"—and she follows her into the rec room and stares at her, and I bet, Dr. Nestor, I bet that if you ask Doe—"

"This is highly unprofessional! Dr. Robinson, are you going to allow—"

"Dr. Nestor! Dr. Abraham!"

Dr. Robinson had to shout to be heard over the quarrelling psychologists, but the effect was immediate. Both doctors fell silent. Dr. Nestor glared at Dr. Abraham, folding thick arms over her ample bosom; he sighed and looked down. Joan Robinson, nee Leland, rubbed her forehead wearily. _I'm getting too old for this job. _

"All right," she sighed, after a moment of tense silence. "Dr. Abraham, I can understand your concern for your patient, and I'm glad that Crane is starting to open up to someone. But…"

An ugly smirk twisted across Dr. Nestor's face at this, but the director ignored her.

"…I don't think we have substantial evidence to place Doe in the observation ward," Dr. Robinson continued. "However, I would advise Dr. Nestor to keep a very sharp eye on Doe. I also think it would be helpful to keep Quinzel and Doe separated from now on."

Dr. Nestor opened her large mouth to protest, but Dr. Robinson overruled her.

"No, Michelle, that's all there is to it. Even if Doe is making great steps, I can't risk another Doe murder in Arkham. The press is already calling Arkham 'living hell'… if it weren't for the Wayne Foundation and Mr. Cobblepot's donations, we'd be finished long ago. We're barely hanging on as it is. We _cannot_ afford any more negative publicity."

Dr. Nestor opened her large mouth, but closed it again upon receiving a stern look from the director. An ugly expression spread across Michelle Nestor's face. She stood up heavily and stumped out, throwing a last dirty look in her colleagues' direction before the door slammed shut. Had there been a broom nearby, she could have flown.

Behind her, Dr. Abraham hesitated and looked at his superior. She smiled patiently, waiting for him to speak.

"You… you were here when Crane was first brought in," he began carefully.

Dr. Robinson nodded. It was one of the benefits of having worked at Arkham so long; she was familiar with each and every one of the high-profile patients, the "Rogues." Granted, most of them had moved on by now, but there were still a few—Crane, Quinn, Fries, Monroe—who frequented the asylum, and she was always the one to welcome them back. They had a sort of bizarre comradeship, like the owner of a hotel greeting loyal customers, and Robinson was always on hand to make sure that Crane got his psychology texts, Fries kept his precious snow globe, and Quinn was allowed a few hours of cartoons each day. She could still remember the day the Joker, Gotham's first costumed criminal, had been brought in. Granted, she'd been an intern fresh from Gotham U at the time, but she still remembered it. It placed her in the company of a very few.

"Did he… well, he's always been very… _reserved... _wouldn't you say?"

Dr. Robinson smiled.

"Understatement of the century," she quipped.

"Yes, well… you saw the video of the rec room," Dr. Abraham said. "He was showing concern, empathy, compassion…"

"Towards Harley," Dr. Robinson gently pointed out.

The brown-haired man looked up quickly.

"You don't think he would have acted that way towards someone else?"

Dr. Robinson smiled, a little sadly, and shook her head.

"Oh. Well, I was hoping- I mean, this is just such a big step forward for him-" Abraham stopped, glancing quickly at his superior, and drew in a deep breath. "I want to put Crane in group therapy again. Before you say no, I know what happened last time, but in light of recent-"

"No, I think that's a good idea," Dr. Robinson said softly. "It's a good idea. Who did you have in mind?"

"Well, Harley, since he seems to be responding so well to her," Dr. Abraham said, after a brief, surprised pause. "And then a few of the C Block inmates- I was thinking Victor Fries, Peter Merkel, maybe Daedalus Boch, and Margeret Pye. I really feel that we could make progress, not just with Crane, but with the others."

"Hmmm. Well, I'm not so sure about having Victor and Pye in the same room."

"We'd dull all the surfaces of his cryo-suit," Dr. Abraham said quickly. "I thought it would be... well, I know Crane and Fries were never allies, but I thought it would be helpful to have some familiar faces in the therapy."

"Very insightful of you. You'll have to talk to Dr. Smith about letting Victor into the sessions, but I don't think that should be a problem. Yes... this could be very helpful," Dr. Robinson mused. "It's a good idea, Bernard, a very good idea."

* * *

The Arkham cafeteria was as crowded as ever. Inmates crowded around the faded plastic tables, talking and elbowing and watching each other with wary eyes. Arkham Asylum was no place to let one's guard down. In one corner, a thin, pale-eyed man was quietly eating a dense biscuit with one hand while turning his spork into a shiv with the other. A bulky woman with short, dirty blonde hair was engaged in a battle of the eyes with a malignant dwarf next to him; a few feet away, Arkham's newest resident was simultaneously trying to eat with a broken right arm and stave off the circling vultures.

Peter Merkel, contortionist extraordinaire, didn't pay them so much as a glance. He didn't belong here; he knew that, and Batman knew that, and the doctors knew it too. At least, he presumed they did- they couldn't be complete idiots, could they? No... they'd just put him here because... his eyes shifted to a muscle-bound schizophrenic approaching from the left. Too close. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the man. The schizo quickly dropped his eyes and shuffled a few feet away. Merkel grinned, running his tongue lightly over his teeth. They'd put him in Arkham as a punishment. Nobody really wanted a boneless freak in their jail, especially not one that could strangle them with his knees... and after the incident in the clock tower, they wanted to see him suffer. Bruce Wayne. That's who it was. Bruce Wayne wanted Peter Merkel to suffer in Arkham.

"Hey, you," a voice called roughly. "Merkel."

It sounded like an orderly. Merkel turned slowly, still grinning. No, it wasn't an orderly- although the muscular fellow could pass as an orderly, if he had a uniform and a few weeks to heal from that nasty bruise over his left eye. He clutched his lunch tray with unmistakable arrogance, smiling wolfishly at Merkel. Merkel's eyes immediately shot to the table directly behind the man. Empty. So the big fellow was new to Arkham, but climbing the ladder. Maybe he'd actually be worth bothering about. Maybe.

Ignoring the man's obnoxious posing and less-than-respectful tone of voice, Merkel slid into an empty seat and grinned at the man.

"Yessss?"

"The name's Firefly," the big man announced.

"Ragdoll," Merkel replied softly. "Why do they call you that, anyway?"

"Why do you think?"

"Well, I don't see your rear lighting up like a flashlight, so... pyromaniac?"

Firefly smirked.

"You got it, buddy. I've heard about you. You're, uh, you're that contortionist guy."

"Professional jewel thief."

"Yeah. Anyway, uh..." Firefly's eyes quickly shot to the nearest guard. "Look, you're on the same wing as, uh, Scarecrow, right?"

"Yes..." Merkel leaned forward, his interest fully aroused. "Why?"

"I got something in mind."

"Such as..." Merkel prodded.

Firefly hesitated, anger briefly flashing across his face. He quickly composed himself with a strained grin and went on.

"You don't like him, right? I mean, he's ripping off your image, man. Can't stand for that."

"Oh, I don't really care," Merkel replied, his grin widening. "As long as I get the payoff..."

Firefly stopped. His brow furrowed, and he chewed his lip for a moment before going on.

"But you wanna get out of here, right?" he said finally.

"Do I really need to answer that?"

"Okay. So, look, I know a way out. But it involves Scarecrow."

"And me," Merkel pointed out.

"What?"

"It involves me as well," Merkel grinned. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have come to me for _help."_

"Uh... yeah, sure," Firefly choked, trying to restrain his rising anger. A dull red spread across his face, and his hands clenched involuntarily around the plastic tray. Merkel couldn't resist a slight snigger. Firefly was going to be _fun._


	10. Chapter 10

_Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye... four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a-_

"...and then he started jumping around like one of those wonderful wacky- hey, Professor, are ya listenin'?"

Jonathan Crane blinked, jolting back to the conversation.

"Uh, yes, of course," he blurted out. "And then Joker, um, continued to electrify Robin?"

"Right-a-rooney! It was SO FUNNY!" Harley giggled.

Beside her, the brown-haired woman stared at Harley and silently mouthed "so funny." Crane frowned. There was definitely something off about Anne Carver. He could feel the beginnings of a headache every time he looked at her.

"...but that's why I really, really, REALLY love joybuzzers," Harley sighed. "When we get out of here, I'm going to get a new one."

_We?_

"So you are planning to resume your criminal career?" Crane muttered, maintaining eye contact with the stale biscuit on his plate. "Without Joker?"

"Well..." Harley hesitated. "Actually, I was-"

"Crane!" a voice boomed from the corner. Crane winced at the amplitude of the sound. There was definitely a headache forming; even the slightest sound felt like a thumbtack through the eardrum. "Doc wants to see you!"

There was an orderly suddenly behind him, and Harley smiled sympathetically before he was pulled away from the table- still chained to the damn wheelchair- and found himself moving far towards the cellblock door far too fast. Tables, inmates, and guards flew past in a unfocused blur, a few grinning faces jumping out like the dark visages of a nightmare. A greasy, round face with dull, crude features- a thin face belonging to a woman, black hair fanning out in a hideously garish tri-hawk- a shock of blond hair atop a sharp, angular face with a matching goatee, grey eyes sneering at Crane-

The door whipped past in a rush of grey and military green, the bars almost bending as the door opened. Crane closed his eyes. His headache was building, and he dearly wished to be back in the quiet and solitude of his cell.

Why did that bumbling buffoon of a doctor even need to see him, anyway? He hadn't done anything wrong- he'd even been eating, or trying to eat, and appear sociable with the other inmates, and-

Crane froze. Meds. Of course, that was it. He hadn't been taking his meds. Somehow, someone had found the hidden stash in his room and put two and two together, and now he would be sternly lectured, perhaps have privileges revoked, be forced to go back to the injections... it spelled the end of any escape, any relief. He would struggle to form a complete sentence, lose interest in the worlld again (and, surprisingly, he did not _want _to lose interest again). And it would mean the death of Scarecrow. He couldn't let it happen, not again. He had to do something.

"Dr. Crane. I've been wanting to talk to you about something."

Crane half-cringed. Every word sent an invisible red-hot nail spiking through his brain, and he'd been so preoccupied with his thoughts he'd missed coming into the office. It was over, it was over, everything was over... a wave of heavy despair rolled over him. He was almost ready to be sick now. Somewhere, a tiny part of his mind told him it was irrational, he was overreacting in a major way, that something was not right somewhere, but he couldn't quite make it out. He stared at the ground and focused on not crying in front of his psychologist. Psychiatrist.

Why couldn't he keep the two straight?

"Is something wrong?"

_Yes, what do you think? _Crane mentally snapped.

"Uh, no. No, nothing," he forced himself to mutter.

"Oh. Well, I have some interesting news for you."

Interesting news? Crane stared at the floor. How could 'I found your secret, now you're going to suffer for it' be interesting news? It wasn't interesting, that was the whole point, and unless Dr. Abraham had developed a sudden, hidden taste for sadistic jokes, he doubted that-

"We're going to start group therapy."

Jonathan swallowed, unable to shake the feeling of impending doom. Group therapy. Sure. Fine. If Abraham wanted to stretch out the ordeal, let him. In a few seconds, it would all come out. 'I found something in your cell.' 'The orderlies showed me this.' 'Have you been taking your meds lately?' And he'd try to lie and fail miserably, because he always failed miserably, and that would be the end. The end of everything.

"I really feel optimistic about this, Dr. Crane. I saw the tape of the rec room. Remember? You were talking to Harley Quinn?"

Anger surged through Crane, surprising him a little. He was talking to Harley Quinn? Was the doctor trying to insinuate something? He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching so hard his fingernails left small, crescent-shaped indentures in the fragile skin. They were spying on him, again. It was a blatant violation of his privacy, the one thing Jonathan Crane absolutely detested.

_Sing a song of sixpence..._

And Scarecrow was still missing, many thanks to the doctor and his ill-fated 'treatment program.' Crane glared at the obnoxiously glossy corner of Dr. Abraham's desk and contemplated possible murder schemes. Oh, how he hated- everything. He hated the doctor, he hated Arkham, he hated the security monitors, and he hated Harley Quinn.

"And I have to say, I was very encouraged by your progress," Dr. Abraham continued, blithely unaware of his patient's growing ire. "This is exactly the sort of behavior we've been talking about- socially appropriate contact, compassionate..."

The doctor's words trailed away in another wave of dull anger. The sort of behavior _we've _been talking about? Could he get any more patronizing? The saccharine condescension grated on Crane's last nerve, and he almost- _almost_-

"...have talked, and we both think you're ready to start rehabilition," Dr. Abraham smiled. "The first step will be practicing social skills in a group setting, which is why we're putting you in a therapy group. The treatment program has been an immense success. Congratulations, Dr. Crane."

Wait, what was that? The treatment program _has been _an immense success? Crane swallowed, his anger fading a little. Did that mean... it was over? No. Really? Did they really think... he glanced at Dr. Abraham's face, studying it quickly. Yes... _yes! A_ dark, malicious sense of joy began to replace the anger. Oh, the fools! The _fools! _They really thought they'd succeeded in killing _Scarecrow _with their little 'treatment program.' If only they knew! Crane couldn't keep a thin smile from spreading across his face.

Dr. Abraham smiled, too, and leaned back in his chair.

"You've done very well, Dr. Crane," he said. "You have every right to be proud of yourself."

By the time the orderlies had wheeled him back to his cell, Crane's good mood had substantially increased, almost to the point of euphoria. He grinned widely at the orderlies, who turned pale and backed away slowly, and surprised them by standing up quickly and almost _bouncing _onto the lumpy mattress, still grinning. He forced himself to sit still until they were out of sight. Oh, but it was too good! Crane stood up and began pacing quickly back and forth, laughing quietly to himself. Of course they hadn't found the medicine! They hadn't found the medicine! And they were really thinking he was recovering, he was moving into rehabilitation, yes, it was perfect and wonderful and he could almost _kiss _Harley Quinn for letting him be so compassionate and understanding and soforth- certainly, perhaps it had been in a moment of weakness, but it had served its purpose and the doctors really believed he was- Crane sniggered- _cured! _Or almost cured. Oh, how he loved Arkham and its wild inefficiency! He was vaguely aware that the temperature was increasing- there was sweat on the knob of the bedframe where he touched it. Sixteen quick steps forward, touch the knob, sixteen quick steps back! Amazing how much a little exercise can improve one's mind! And he had energy and to spare, now, because now, _now, _everything was going forward perfectly!

"Sing a song of sixpence," Crane snickered, careful to keep his voice low, "a pocketful of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie! When the pie was opened, the birds begantosing! Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before a king!"

Peter Merkel cocked his head, listening. The sounds, indistinct and muffled, floated down the corridor to his cell.

_...went down the hill... ha, ha, ha... to fetch a pail... fools!..._

A slow smile spread across the contortionist's face, and he pressed himself closer to the glass, looping one knee comfortably over his shoulder. It could only be one person. "The Scarecrow", an ex-professor (what kind of supervillain admitted to being a _teacher? _Talk about a serious lack of style...) and former psychologist obsessed with fear. And, of course, Merkel's ticket out of Arkham, if Firefly was to believed.

Merkel grinned and flipped to stand on one hand a foot for a while, stretching the muscles in his back. Firefly, the muscle-bound pyromaniac. Firefly, the dangerous and unstable supervillain. Firefly, the idiot. Sure, the man was big and beefy, but really, one needed so much more than brawn to survive in Arkham Asylum. Merkel hadn't really had a problem with that- during his first lunch in the cafeteria, he'd been assaulted by Crazy Quilt and Crazy Quilt's plastic shank. The schizophrenic hypnotist had been quite surprised to find that yes, Ragdoll really did have triple-jointed arms and had absolutely no qualms about suffocating would-be attackers with his straitjacket. There had been one other little itty bitty incident with a less-than-hospitable orderly, and Ragdoll had joined the upper ranks of Arkham insanity.

Firefly... well, unless he managed to get his hands on some matches and light up an orderly's boxers- Merkel couldn't help but snigger at the mental image- he was basically fried. There were plenty of inmates bigger than him, and plenty of inmates crazier than him, and he just didn't cut it in Arkham by himself.

Obviously, that was why he had applied to Merkel for help. It was more than just a possible joint escape venture- Firefly needed the association with Merkel.

"Like wolves," Merkel drawled, drawing circles on the glass with a finger. "He needs a pack..."

He laughed and shook his head. Ragdoll worked alone, everyone knew that. But if Firefly was foolish enough to try and band up with him... Merkel ran his tongue over his teeth in anticipation. He would string Firefly along for as long as he could before the delicious betrayal. The big lug could be useful, certainly, and if he thought Ragdoll was helping _him, _well, that just made Merkel's job all the easier.

And then there was Firefly's intended target. Really, Merkel had been longing to get a crack in at Scarecrow since day one- no, actually, since before he was committed to the asylum. Scarecrow aroused his curiousity. Maybe the fellow was stick-thin and looked about as threatening as a retirement-age science teacher, but he'd heard _stories _about the Horrifying Scarecrow Almighty that sounded... well, very exaggerated, but still very _interesting. _And the old man hadn't even flinched when Merkel had done the knot trick earlier.

Stupid Firefly. Sooner or later, Peter Merkel would have _tangled_ with Jonathan Crane of his own accord...

* * *

_"And Scarecrow was still missing..." _Just to be clear, when Crane is thinking to himself, it looks like _this _and when Scarecrow jumps in, it looks like **_this _**or **this. **

_"...Crazy Quilt and Crazy Quilt's plastic shank..." _Crazy Quilt appears in both the Batman comics and Batman: the Brave and the Bold. No, he's not really a part of the plot, and no, I don't own him either.

"_He would string Firefly along for as long as he could before the delicious betrayal..." _In several "Sinister Six" storylines, Ragdoll does just that to various would-be teammates.


	11. Chapter 11

Sometime during the night, Jonathan Crane was awakened by the sound of tapping, presumably coming from the bulletproof glass that formed the front of his cell. He half-sighed and rolled over, ignoring it. It had to be the new nurse; everyone else would have known that Crane took his medication twice daily, and never, _never _asked for a sedative. The tapping increased in volume, and Crane vaguely wondered if the nurse was new to Arkham or simply Cellblock C. He tuned it out, focusing on a slight discoloration on the padded wall, and tried to go back to sleep.

The tapping slowed, then stopped—perhaps the nurse had given up. Suddenly, there came a low, sharp exclamation from the lower part of the cell.

"_Boo!" _

Crane sighed to himself. Wonderful. There must be a new orderly around here as well, one whom Crane hadn't harassed yet or who was set on proving his reputation by harassing Crane. Much as he would have liked to ignore it, the imbecilic irritation would undoubtedly continue to escalate until the orderly's base desire for recognition was satisfied. He rolled over, ready to shoot a scathing glare at the offending orderly.

There was an arm in his cell. For a moment, Crane blinked, slightly taken aback at the bizarre sight. A thin, white arm protruded at an impossible angle from the food slot, elbow gruesomely dislocated and dangling limply. Crane's mind automatically jumped to the Joker. _But he's dead. _Then, to Crane's mild interest, the arm straightened itself up with a jerk, fingers reaching towards him with all the melodrama of a bad horror flick.

Shading his eyes against the glare from the glass, Crane made out a dark silhouette in the hallway. His mind went back to the contortionist—Merkel, wasn't it?—in the cell by the cafeteria door. Suddenly, Merkel's face was pressed up against the glass, stretching into a crooked, deranged grin. Crane regarded him with detached interest. Autophobia and mild narcissist disorder aside, the man had to want something to be skulking around Crane's cell in the middle of the night. Perhaps, the ex-professor thought dryly, the contortionist, like "Firefly", was seeking an opportunity to gain status within the asylum's twisted social structure by taunting or otherwise provoking "the Scarecrow." How petty, how easily—

Merkel's grin was starting to slip. The horribly contorted wrist—it would have induced disgust, horror, even fear in anyone else, Crane idly noted—suddenly jerked upright, a long, skinny forefinger beckoning.

"What do you want?" Crane asked.

"Scarecrow…" Merkel hissed.

Crane rolled his eyes. Merkel _was _trying to scare him, and doing an extremely poor job of it.

"That's not how it's done," Crane pointed it. "If you really wanted to scare me, you should have done it like this." He drew in a deep breath and leaned close to the glass, trying to recall exactly how the voice should sound. **"**_**Scaaaarecrooow…" **_

Merkel gulped, instinctively withdrawing from the glass. Crane hardly noticed; he was almost ready to shout with joy. It had worked! It had really worked! Scarecrow had come back, finally, _finally. _An immense wave of relief rolled over Crane. He was complete once more—no longer defenseless, no longer vulnerable, no longer dependant on anyone.

"…zoning out there, are ya, doc?" Merkel grinned, licking his lips. Crane's eyes shot back to the contortionist, who had managed to get his arm up to the door lock and was scrabbling with the mechanism. "Never mind. Let's get you out of there so we can have a little, uh, _heart to heart…" _

Crane smiled. Yes, certainly, Scarecrow would be happy for a little "heart to heart"… he frowned slightly when there was no answering sneer from his darker half.

"Careful," Crane warned. "There's a pressure sensor."

Crouching by his bed, he reached between the mattress and frame, keeping wary eyes on the contortionist and mentally thanking Dr. Robinson for supplying him with the bedframe. He had discovered months ago that the undercarriage of the frame consisted of a network of thin, flexible wires; it had been easy enough to detach one and then re-wire it loosely back onto the frame. He pulled it out and stood up slowly, straightening the long wire.

"You can't defuse a pressure sensor with a wire," Merkel smirked.

Crane didn't deign to answer that, merely moved to the small device and began picking at the outer casing with the end of the wire. The crack between the two halves of the plastic shell widened enough for Crane to push the wire through and into the body of the alarm. He had planned for this long ago, done his homework on Arkham security when he was still "at large", and knew exactly where the thin, vulnerable battery line lay. A few skilful maneuvers with the wire, and the pressure sensor lost power. Crane bent down and focused on the actual lock itself. Despite all Bruce Wayne's charity, Arkham never seemed to have enough money for "sufficient security." (Crane strongly suspected an embezzler in the system.) This particular lock had been in use for almost two years, meaning that any villain worth his (or her) salt could pick it blindfolded.

Merkel's grin never wavered as Crane quietly opened the lock and he pushed the door open. Cool air wafted gently in his face; in the next instant, Merkel had launched himself off the ground and wrapped himself around Crane's head in a soft, clinging, slowly tightening embrace. Jonathan had suspected he might try something of the sort. He staggered back, allowing Merkel to think he had overpowered him, fell back against the bed. Merkel was laughing softly, his grip getting uncomfortably tight.

With one bony arm, Crane clawed at Merkel's face. _Make him think I'm desperate, I'm frightened… _the other arm slid noiselessly beneath the thin asylum sheets. He had found the hole in the mattress months ago, widened it and filled it with metal and stolen medication, and covered it with a sheet. His groping arm found the shank and pulled it free.

Merkel let out a tight hiss of pain and went limp, uncoiling like a beheaded constrictor. Crane didn't wait for him to recover and strike again. He shoved the man's body off the bed and fell back, wary.

"That wasn't _nice, _Scarecrow," Merkel whispered.

His hands went to his side, where a red stain was spreading through the grey asylum uniform.

"What do you want?" Crane asked flatly.

"It's funny," Merkel breathed, eyes never leaving Crane's, "people… when I break in… they seem to think I'm _you. _Must be the burlap."

Crane arched an eyebrow. Of course they might confuse Merkel… Crane didn't have a villain name to put to him yet… with Scarecrow, if the man wore _burlap. _

"No straw?" he asked.

"The burlap's bad enough," Merkel said, his grin coming back. "How do you stand that stuff, anyway? But, uh, as I was saying, I just can't seem to get any respect around here. There's only room for one dandy freak in this town, and that's me!"

He leapt at Crane again, much slower this time, and the ex-professor merely sidestepped the lunge and rapped him soundly on the head with a bony fist. Merkel groaned and doubled up, clutching his ribcage. Jonathan Crane had to resist the temptation to roll his eyes. So it was just another petty power squabble.

"Get out," Crane sighed, disgusted.

"What?"

Crane was about to reiterate his command when a thought occurred to him. He stopped, adjusted his glasses, and observed the injured contortionist with the practiced eye of a trained psychologist. Having an ally (and by ally he meant minion) would be quite useful in Arkham, but Merkel's attitude was all wrong at present. He was still too self-confident, not yet in fear of Scarecrow; left to himself, the subject would undoubtedly make another attempt at gaining status. That could be amended.

"_When Adam delved, and Eve span, who was then a gentleman?" _he said quietly.

Merkel's smile disappeared, replaced by a look of genuine confusion.

"_What?" _

"It's a nursery rhyme," Crane explained, a bit of Scarecrow's malice filtering into his voice. "Peasants began reciting it in the aftermath of the Black Plague. A nasty disease, that. I'm sure you've read about it. It was spread by fleas—"

"—which lived on rats," Merkel interrupted, grinning. "They practically lived in filth back then, and the rats were everywhere. If you got the disease, you'd get these wicked black buboes all over you. They were so painful that, uh, people begged God to let them die. And they'd swell up, too, all black and disgusting, right in your armpits. Not to mention the smell."

"And the corpses lay in the streets for weeks," Crane said calmly. "They decayed there, slowly, because there was no one to bury them."

"Because everyone was dead," Merkel said. His grin widened, if possibly, and he leaned forward a bit. "That your best shot, Scarecrow?"

"They lay in the streets, side by side," Crane continued. "Nobleman by peasant, priest by convict—the plague made no distinction. Death made no distinction. The prince of Saxony died in his palace, and they had to search for his body among the courtiers. But by that time, it was hardly recognizable."

Merkel's smile lessened.

"So what?"

"Imagine," Crane mused. "To walk down a street, surrounded by bodies… _When Adam delved, and Eve span, who was then a gentleman? _The peasants were recognizing a universal truth. While we might pretend to be gentlemen—to be something special, something worthy of recognition—at heart… we are all the same. They lay in the streets… what did it matter, if one body had been a soldier? Maybe he had been… brave. Maybe he had been daring. An adventurer, perhaps, or a… thief…"

Crane shot a quick glance at Merkel. The man's lips were tight, his face pale, and a trickle of sweat gleamed on his forehead. So far, so good.

"But in the end, no one cared. No one remembered. Why should they? _When Adam delved, and Eve span… _that's the meaning of the rhyme, you know. In the end, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. We're all the same in death... we're all forgotten. Can you remember the name of your great-grandmother? Even one of them? Do you know what she did for a living, who she married, what sort of person she was? Of course not. We never remember the dead, especially when they are so very forgettable in life."

Merkel's breathing was picking up, his eyes were widening.

"But that's different," he said with an effort. "They can't forget me… I mean, they can't! I've stolen from everybody! They can't forget… me…"

Crane smiled thinly.

"There are far too many masks in Gotham," he said. "But I'm sure you've observed it by now. Tell me, does the name Temple Fugate mean anything to you?"

Merkel blinked.

"No," he admitted, finally.

"Of course not. But he was one of us, he faced down the Batman… he destroyed Bruce Wayne's clock tower, before it was rebuilt. He kidnapped the Commissioner once, he nearly killed Batman so many times… when was the last time you came close to that?"

"No. No," Merkel mumbled.

"Admit it. You're not a Rogue, not at all. No, you're just a common little thief… in a few years, you'll be dead and gone, and nobody—_nobody—_will even remember you _existed…"_

Merkel gasped and jerked his head away, blond hair falling into his eyes.

"No!"

"_When Adam delved, and Eve span," _Crane said cruelly, **"**_**who was then a gentle-man?" **_

"Hey! Crane!" a booming voice interrupted, accompanied by a sharp rapping on the Plexiglas wall. Crane didn't have to look up to know that the orderlies had found them.

"Oh, #$*, he's in here! Scarecrow did something to 'im!—CRANE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND TURN AROUND SLOWLY!"

"…on their way. What happened?"

"Merkel's in here."

"That *$#! What the #$! was he thinkin'?"

"HEY MERKEL! COME OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS UP—how'd he get out, anyway?"

"Beats me. Where's the nurse, someone get a #&% nurse! Get a straitjacket on Crane—watch it, he's still got the shank!"

Jonathan Crane dropped the shank, turned to face the orderlies, and smiled.

* * *

_...people... when I break in... they seem to think I'm _you... No, this never happened in any comicverse, TV series, or movie. The viewers of "The Batman", not the people of Gotham, confused Ragdoll with Scarecrow (as mentioned in a previous footnote).

_There's only room for one dandy freak in this town, and that's me! _A perversion of Ragdoll's line in the DC Comics "Sinister Six" storyline, in which Jervis Tetch goes through heck to win his way onto the Sinister Six villain team so he can have "friends." Just when he's won their approval and promises to be "a very good friend" to them, Ragdoll _shoves him off a bridge, _claiming "there's only room for one dandy freak on this team!"

_...he destroyed Bruce Wayne's clock tower, before it was rebuilt... _In "The Batman" episode "Ragdolls to Riches," Ragdoll and Catwoman had a rivalry going while searching for some mythical emeralds in Bruce Wayne's clock tower. The BTAS episode "Clock King" had Temple Fugate destroying a clock tower. I decided it would be Bruce's.


	12. Chapter 12

Harley Quinn sat petulantly in the flimsy plastic chair, swinging her legs in time to a silent calliope. She hated cafeteria food (yuck!), and Professor Crane had yet to show up in the lunch room, which meant there was nobody to talk to. Annie hardly talked at all, just sat real still and ate her food. She was kind of like a dog, following Harley everywhere but never saying much. And she never talked in her own voice. She did Harley's voice, mainly, and sometimes the guard's or the nurse's.

"Hold out your arm, dear," the nurse had said, smiling. And Annie had looked at her, expressionless, and said in perfect nurse-voice,

"Go to #$%, dear."

Or then there was the time the guard had winked at Harley, and Annie had jumped up and _growled _at him and said (in a deep, rough, junkyard voice borrowed from one of the other inmates),

"Ya stay outta my way an' hers, ya lousy piece of _trash!"_

At first, Annie's impressions had been funny. Silly. Entertaining. Then she'd starting doing Harley's voice more and more. It hadn't been so bad- it had actually been quite interesting to hear her own voice come out of Annie's mouth. But that was then. Now, it was slightly annoying, slightly disturbing, and really starting to get on Harley's nerves.

"I wonder where Professor Crane is," Harley mumbled, pushing eggs a la sponge around her plate.

"Prob'ly got thrown in the _dark cells," _Annie offered in Harley's voice.

"Aw, knock it off," Harley sighed. "Say, Annie, dontja ever get tired of talking like me?"

"Pleased ta meet ya! I'm Harley Quinn!"

Harley rolled her eyes.

"Um... yeah, right. Whatever makes ya happy."

"Excuse me, Miss Harleen Quinzel?"

The voice spoke from a few feet away, breaking into Harley's thoughts with a pinched tone and slight Southern accent. Harley jumped up, knocking her chair over, and practically threw her arms around the speaker, a heavyset woman with short, flat grey hair and thick hornrimmed glasses on her face. Said glasses went flying, but Harley didn't stop her hug.

"Awww! That's so sweet! But just call me Harley, ev'rybody does!"

"Hmph. Yes, well," the woman sputtered, retrieving her glasses, "I am Dr. Nestor."

"Did they switch docs on me _again?_" Harley complained. "Darn, I hate it when they do that!"

"She's _my _doc, thankyouverymuch," Annie cut in.

"Why didn't you say so? Pleased ta meet ya, Annie's Doc!" Harley beamed, holding her arms out for another hug. Dr. Nestor swallowed hard and grabbed Harley's hand, shaking it vigorously and staving off the second hug.

"Yes, I'm pleased to meet you as well," Dr. Nestor said. "You've been a wonderful influence on Jane. I'm glad she has friends like you, Miss Quinzel. Jane, it's time for our session."

"Do I _have _to?" Jane-and/or-Annie complained.

"Of course you do," Dr. Nestor replied. "And, uh, Harley, I think Dr. Abraham is waiting for you."

"Aaaaw," Harley pouted, crossing her arms. "Bye, Annie."

"Bye, Harl!" Annie shouted, skipping out the door after Dr. Nestor. Harley sighed and slumped down on the table, resting her cheek on her left hand and poking the unappetizing matter on her lunch tray with a spork. She frowned at the mess. Arkham was, purportedly, a place of healing and not of punishment. Staring down at the grey-white "biscuit", so-called, Harley wasn't so sure.

"You. Quinn," a deep voice sounded behind her. "Weren't ya listening? Doc wants to see you."

* * *

"So... what's up, doc?" Harley bubbled, plopping onto the relaxation couch and throwing one of her brightest smiles at Dr. Abraham. The good doctor sighed, clicked his pen twice, and flipped a tan manila file shut.

"Harleen, good to see you in such high spirits," he said.

"Really, doc, just call me Harley!" Harley said in mock protest. "Harley Quinn, if ya have ta be formal."

"Hmmm. Well, Dr. Quinzel, I wanted to give you some good news. From now on, you'll be participating in a selective therapy group twice a week. Dr. Robinson and I have reviewed your file, and we think you have a good chance of recovering," Dr. Abraham said.

Harley giggled.

"Ya talk like I'm sick or somethin'!"

Ignoring this outburst, Dr. Abraham continued his speech.

"You'll be in a small, supportive group along with several of your- err- friends who have made significant progress lately. It's a very good sign that Dr. Robinson is letting you into the group; you have a very good prospect of, um, improving. Harleen, I know you don't like it here. I don't even like it here, and I work here. It's a dangerous place, and I'm sure you don't like being stuck in your room all day."

"The food stinks," Harley grumbled. "Literally."

"You don't have to stay here," Dr. Abraham said, leaning forward. "You could... you could leave, if you wanted to."

Harley sighed and said nothing.

"Harley," Dr. Abraham began again, "we want to help you. We want you to have a better future. Isn't that what you want, too?"

"I... guess," Harley

* * *

said uncertainly.

"You could leave Arkham forever," Dr. Abraham said encouragingly. "You can do it, Harley. We can help you. Think about it. You could move out, get your old life back... you could go anywhere, do anything. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Um... yes?"

"You would be able to travel, to see the world. You could go shopping again," Dr. Abraham said. "And you could get... Bud, isn't it? You could get custody of Bud from the Exotic Animal Rescue and own him, legally. You could go back to the way things were... before. You could be normal again."

"But I... I don't want to be normal," Harley gulped.

"Then what do you want? You can't keep running forever, Harley, and you can't go back to a life of crime, not without... not by yourself. What do you plan to do now? Grow old in Arkham Asylum? Escape, and be killed by one of the rising supervillains? I can warn you what will happen, but I can't make your decision for you. You have to choose. What do you want, Harleen Quinzel?"

Harley swallowed twice, contorted her hands into knuckled knots, and bit her lower lip nervously.

"I, I," she began. "I don't know. I just don't know."

* * *

_"...and Annie had jumped up and growled at him..." _Bonus points to whomever correctly names this Arkham inmate.


	13. Chapter 13

The room was nothing special; it had begun as a regular doctor's office, but after someone (Crane would put money on the Joker) had destroyed all the furnishings and most of one wall during an escape attempt, it had been rebuilt and reborn as a group therapy room. The walls were padded with the same dirty off-white plastic that lined the C Block cells, and a battered plastic table and some folding chairs constituted the entirety of the furniture. Two military-grade security cameras, an open intercom, and three panic buttons ensured the doctor's safety. The safety of the inmates was, unfortunately, unensurable.

"Welcome, everyone. I'm glad you're all here," the doctor said, as the inmates filed in one by one, dropped into the chairs, and waited to be unshackled. The therapist was slightly nervous; she had been assigned this particular group because of the ongoing fued between doctors Nestor and Abraham, and had no real desire to be locked in a 16 x 16 concrete room with Arkham's most dangerous. "I'm Dr. Drei, but please call me Sarah. Why don't you all sit down and we'll introduce each other... I mean, we'll introduce ourselves to each other."

That got her a thin, sick smile from the stringy man in the straitjacket, and a grin from Harley Quinn.

"Pleased ta meetcha, Sarah," Harley bubbled, holding out her hands to be uncuffed. "I'm Harley Quinn! But just call me Harley."

Dr. Drei nodded, glad to have one enthusiastic member of the group.

"And why are you here, Harley?" she asked.

"Aw, because I was too slow," Harley sighed, swinging her legs jauntily.

"Too slow?"

"Yeah, I didn't run fast enough and the Batman caught me and hauled me in here," Harley explained. "That was the same day... my... precious... puddin'..."

Harley Quinn promptly broke down in tears.

"Can it, sweetheart," grunted an imposing female on Harley's right. She might have been normal, once, maybe even pretty, but her hair had been cropped close to the skull in a glaringly ugly tri-hawk cut. A few holes adorned her upper lip and left eyebrow; Arkham did not allow facial jewelry. "We've all got someone who's dead."

"WHAT did you just call me?"

Dr. Drei thought it best to intervene.

"And what's your name?" she said quickly, addressing the tri-hawked woman.

"Maggie Pye. Or Magpie. Take your pick. Don't matter none to me," the woman snorted. "I'm here for stealing. Diamonds, rubies, amethysts. Doesn't matter, s'long as it's shiny. Knives too." She paused, flipping short black hair out of her face. "Y'know, this is really, really dumb."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that's what you think," Dr. Drei said. "I hope maybe we can change your mind about that. Why don't you go next?"

This last was addressed to the inmate on Pye's right. Dr. Drei might have saved her breath, however; this inmate needed no introduction. At first glance, it appeared to be an enormous humanoid robot rather than a man. The only vestige of humanity left to it was its head, encased in a glass bell jar, and even that was deadly white; not merely pale, like a person who is afraid or angry, but white- white, like sugar, or, more aptly, like snow. The mouth moved, and a dull, dead, cold voice came out of the robot's chest.

"My name is Dr. Victor Fries. I am here because Blackgate Penitentiary cannot contain me, because Iron Heights cannot arrest my revenge. And I will be avenged. We will both be avenged... eventually. For revenge is a dish best served... cold."

Several of the inmates shifted uncomfortably. Dr. Drei nodded to the next inmate, a thin, nervy man with a dark goatee.

"Daedalus," he muttered. "Daedalus, Daedulus- Boch, I mean. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to... I mean, I had to. It wasn't like I could... I just had to."

"Had to do what?" Harley wanted to know.

The man's face twitched nervously. To his left, another inmate leaned forward, closely observing Boch's face.

"I killed them!" Boch finally sputtered. "I'm sorry! But I needed their blood. To paint... the pictures? They never understand... I just needed the blood, that was all. It had to be red... the right shade of red... do you know how hard it is to find that shade? It's not just the hue, it's the way it dries, too... the texture, not just the color. It has to be that way."

Dr. Drei nodded to the next inmate, a wiry, spare man with a shock of dirty blond hair... who had twisted out of his straitjacket and was amusing himself by tying the jacket's arms into various knots.

"Wait! You can't do that!"

"I can do it with my arms inside, too," Peter Merkel informed the doctor, with a twisted grin. "Wanna see?"

"No- no, why don't you just tell us your name."

"And, of course, what I'm in for," Merkel said smugly. "The name's Ragdoll. I'm a contortionist. Watch this!"

"Actually," a thin, educated voice said, "his name is Peter Merkel, and he's a classic narcissist. Touch of autophobia and sociophobia... automanotophobia, too."

Dr. Drei turned to see who had spoken. It was an older man, lean to the point of gauntness, who had also managed to work his way out of the cuffs and was currently sitting his hands folded easily in his lap. Merkel's grin diminished, and he looked at the floor.

"And why don't you introduce yourself," Dr. Drei asked the spindly man.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane," he said quietly. "Perhaps you've read my book, _The Faces of Fear? _No? You really should, doctor. It's most- ah- enlightening."

"Oh? What is it about?" the doctor said, merely to keep him talking.

"Please, doctor, don't insult your intelligence or mine. With a title like that, surely you can guess... the book is about fear. Fear is what drives us, what defines us... every human action, whether for good or for evil, can be traced back to fear."

"Or to love."

It was Victor Fries' dull monotone. Every head swiveled to face him, and he continued coolly.

"What you say is mostly true. Fear is a most powerful force. It can bind the strong, it can drive the weak... but there is something stronger, something deeper, than fear."

"Love?" Crane shook his head slowly. "I would never have taken you for a romantic, Fries."

"Think of me as a Machivellian, then. A very thorough Machivellian."

"Machivelli concluded that it was better to be feared than loved," Crane pointed out.

"Yes. But he conceded that love is the stronger force. And when love is denied..." Fries said, a note of emotion coming into his voice. "It becomes the second strongest force on earth."

"Hate," Crane concluded.

"No. Bitterness."

"Ah, but think about it," Merkel jumepd in. "Why do you love others? Isn't it because you're afraid? Afraid of what they think?"

"Precisely," Crane nodded, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Love is merely a mechanism our body adopts in order to stave off fear- fear of rejection, fear of abandonment..." he glanced swiftly at Merkel. "...fear of being forgotten..."

"I dunno, professor," Harley ventured. "I mean, when I was with my puddin'..." she sighed dreamily. "The last think I was thinkin' about was bein' afraid."

Jonathan Crane sniffed.

"Harley, your 'puddin'' beat you, starved you, threw you out in the rain multiple times... he pushed you off a building, in case you forgot! You nearly died! Can you honestly say you had absolutely no fear of Joker?"

"Well..." Harley looked down.

"Um, no offense, but I'm with the Scarecrow on this one," Magpie interjected. "Sounds like you had one abusive honey, sweetie. You should be lucky he's gone."

"It wasn't like that!" Harley suddenly burst out. "You don't understand, none of you!"

"Well, then," Dr. Drei said gently, "help us to understand. Explain."

"Sure, Mistah J hit me a coupla times, and he did push me off the building... but I deserved that! I mean, I messed up his plans! And it's not like I never hit him, neither!" Harley sniffed. "'Sides, he more than made up for it. He was perfect. And now he's... gone..." Harley dropped her head to the table and began sobbing. Maggie Pye rolled her eyes and patted the weeping woman on the shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. Sure thing, honey."


	14. Chapter 14

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey everyone, thanks so much for the kind reviews. Input is always appreciated. A belated shoutout goes to Hush 2.0 for identifying Junkyard Dog two chapters ago.

* * *

The corn was brown and brittle, the ears already dry and empty. It stood deserted in rows and fields and acres, pointing stiffly at the empty sky. A feeble breeze stirred in the east, and the dead dry leaves rasped against each other in a ghostly whisper. A narrow dirt road wound its way between the fields, bordered by rusty barbed wire than hung limp from post to ancient post. At the far end of a field stood a house. Maybe, once upon a time, it had looked decent, sturdy, maybe even hospitable. The architecture vaguely reminded one of the antebellum South, of gallant plantation owners and beautiful women in ball gowns who served pineapple and divinity and recited Shakespeare in charming Georgian drawls. But time had not been kind to this daughter of the South. The vaunting roof sagged, the paint was cracked and peeling, the porch railing crawled with termites. The windows had long since traded their glass panes for empty spaces hung with cobwebs, the door hung loose and broken on rusty hinges, and the whole house reeked of desolation.

Jonathan Crane knew this place. He stared at the house, listened to the dead dry whisper of the wind in the corn, and waited. Waited... for something. Anything. A sound, a sign, a voice...

Nothing happened. The sun beat down on the ex-professor's skin, parching it with a familiar heat. Something was coming, something from behind him. Jonathan half-turned, just in time to see a lone crow flying low over the cornfield, and step aside. The bird careened past him, cawing hoarsely. Jonathan watched it go in a mix of trepidation and disgust.

"What's the matter, Spooky? _Afraid _of a little bird?" a voice broke in mockingly.

Crane jumped, and instantly turned to see-

"Joker! What are you doing here?"

The clown grinned widely, slapped a hand on Jonathan's shoulder, and pointed at the house.

"You used to live there?"

"That," Jonathan retorted sharply, flicking Joker's hand away, "is none of your business."

"Awww. Did I hurt your feelings?" the Joker sneered. "But I know why you're here, you know."

"What?" Crane was intrigued. "Why?"

Joker snickered, and gestured widely at the landscape.

"Look familiar? It should. This is your house, or it was, until you finally decided to stand up to Great-granny and run off to the city. _Remember, _Jonny?"

Jonathan was struck speechless.

"I knew it'd come to you if you thought about it! Yes, these are the fields you used to run through. Pity the corn's all gone to seed, though. You never can tell with corn- get it? CORN? AHAHAHAHAHA!"

The Joker fell into a fit of maniacal laughter, clutching his sides hysterically. Jonathan stepped away from the clown in disgust. Then it hit him.

"All right, you've have your little joke," he snapped. "Now where is it?"

The Joker's hysterical heaves gradually subsided, and he looked up, eyes sparkling with unpredictable cunning.

"That's right, I _forgot! _You're still looking for your scarecrow!" the Joker crowed, and Jonathan had to grind his teeth to keep from smacking the clown. "Normally I'd say to follow the yellow brick road, but in this case-"

"Where is it?" Jonathan glared at the clown. "Where is he?"

"Behind the barn. Sheesh, Jonny, lighten up!"

And the Joker burst out into laughter, a bit more throaty than Jonathan remembered. The psychotic clown doubled over, still laughing, and- was that dust? Jonathan stared at the clown with a mixture of fascination and disgust as a faint cloud of dust puffed from the Joker's open mouth. Joker only laughed harder, creating more dust. A dark line suddenly ran up the side of his face, along the jaw line, and there was a faint cracking sound. Joker stopped, ran his tongue over the outside of his lips, and looked up at Jonathan. He grinned widely and evilly, the trademack Joker smile, before a second crack ran up the other side of his face. Jonathan watched in horror as the clown's jaw dropped off completely, and grey dust poured down. And the Joker started laughing.

Stepping over the Joker's convulsing body, Jonathan headed for the mansion. There were a few crows on the roof, crows that hadn't been there before, and they watched him with small, shining eyes. In some faraway part of his mind, Jonathan knew that they weren't real, that crows couldn't get that big, that they couldn't be the same crows he knew, crows couldn't live that long, and anyway he wasn't afraid of them any more, he wasn't afraid of anything... They watched him go, their beaks gleaming sharp and clean in the midafternoon haze. There was dust in the air and dust on the crows, and the crows had picked the corn dry. It was just as he remembered it.

Jonathan Crane rounded the corner of the mansion and stopped, gaping. The air was full of crows. They rose out of the cornfield in one unending column, stretching up to the sky in a loose black cloud. It was both beautiful and terrifying, a pillar of feathers and not of smoke. And so quiet. Crows were never quiet; Jonathan could attest to that fact. They screeched and cawed and shrieked and pecked and tore with cruel curved claws. But not these. These merely rose out of the corn, phantom-like, rising endessly into the sky in an undulating mass of feathers and beaks. Standing on tiptoe, Jonathan could just make out an outline rising about the dried corn stalks. It might have been a human figure; it might have been a skeleton. It was too far to make it out, and anyway it had its back to the old house. But Jonathan knew what it was. It stood motionless, straw-filled arms stretched to the sky in a final, silent gesture of victory like some obscene Moses before the pillar of smoke.

Jonathan stepped into the corn, ignoring the black-feathered birds that hopped from stalk to stalk around him. Although they continually took off, circling into the sky, there never seemed to be any less of them. But it didn't matter. He wasn't afraid of them- if anything, they should be afraid of him- and anyway, he had to reach the scarecrow. The stiff stalks parted before Jonathan, rustling loudly and sending up small clouds of crows. The heat was stifling. He shoved his way through the dried corn, coating his arms with a thin film of dust. The crows objected, cawing harshly and leaping from the dying stalks to his arms, their claws catching at his body. He didn't care.

Finally, he reached the scarecrow. He stood there for a moment, looking up at it. When had the frame become so tall? He certainly didn't remember it... Jonathan took hold of the wooden frame and shook it. Scarecrow would realize it was him and come down. A battered straw hat floated down, followed by a handful of moldy straw. Immediately, the crows began to caw, their circling ascent slowing. The birds in the corn nearest him suddenly turned beady eyes on the ex-professor. One hopped onto his shoulder and gave his arm an experimental peck. Jonathan swatted it away and shook the frame harder. Suddenly, it collapsed, falling gently into the corn in a heap of sticks and rags. There was a half second of silence before the birds attacked. The crows descended on him from all directions, pecking, clawing, screeching, tearing at him... Jonathan could see nothing but a flurry black feathers. Hundreds of tiny beaks stabbed at him; the raucous cawing was deafening. Jonathan Crane screamed, threw up his arms, and fell back into the corn.

"Heyah! Professor! _Professor!"_

Jonathan Crane jolted back to consciousness, heart racing. He was lying on the concrete floor of his cell, a worn asylum bedsheet tangled around his arms and legs. Not the most comfortable of positions, but-

"You okay, Professor Crane?" Harley called. "You were twitching something awful! Bad dreams?"

Crane was still too shaken to reply, but he got to his feet and ran a thin hand through his hair. Crows. He had forgotten how horrific they could be, how terrible wings and beaks and feet could feel, the awful noise they made... he had begun to pace, unconsciously, shivering slightly in the asylum's nocturnal coolness. Yes, they had been bad dreams... nightmares. He couldn't remember the last time he'd dreamed; he'd forgotten how intense they could be.

"I'm fine," he finally replied. "Perfectly fine."

"Uh-huh," Harley said skeptically. "Wanna talk about it?"

Crane involuntarily clenched his jaw. Why on earth would he want to talk about it? Harley was starting to sound like that bumbling dimwit of a doctor... all those bumbling dimwits of doctors.

"I'm perfectly fine!" he snapped. "I don't need or want your help... but thank you for the offer," he added hastily.

"Okey dokey! G'night, Professor Crane! Sleep well!"

Crane rolled his eyes. Sleep well, indeed! He didn't need to sleep, he needed to walk... to think... to plan! He needed to prepare for his "talk" with Merkel's friend, think of a suitable way to escape, recall the addresses of his old laboratories and hideouts... and his mask, of course. If they had kept it, it would probably be in the old "belongings" cabinet behind the receptionists' desk. If he were lucky, there might even be a canisters of gas or fear toxin straws with it. Crane turned away, rubbing bony hands together, and smiled to himself.

Oh, yes, he had a plan...

* * *

"So didja see him?" Garfield Lynns grunted, sitting down heavily next to Peter Merkel. The contortionist did not seem to have slept well; he shuddered slightly as Lynns sat down, holding his arm protectively close to his right side, and blinked rapidly. There were dark shadows under his eyes.

"Scarecrow," Lynns prodded, shoveling powdered eggs into his mouth. "Didja talk to him? Is he in?"

"Um... yes?"

Merkel didn't seem to sure of himself. Lynns scowled at him, crossing muscular arms over his chest.

"Well? What'd he say?" Lynns demanded.

"He... he's in," Merkel said in a voice halfway between a gasp and a squeak. "I talked to him."

Lynns arched an eyebrow and smirked at his companion.

"'Smatter, Raggedy Ann, he _scare_ you?"

"As a matter of fact," a clear, quiet voice said from behind Lynns, "I did."

Lynns spun around on the chair. Jonathan Crane was approaching, still shackled to a wheelchair and looking eerily calm. A white-clad orderly stood directly behind him, hands shaking slightly as he pushed the wheelchair up to the table.

"Thank you, John- it _is _John, isn't it?" Crane said. "You can leave us now." The orderly was only too glad to do so. Dr. Crane turned back to the table, carefully set his tray down, and pushed his glasses up his nose. Lynns found himself under the penetrating scrutuny of a pair of piercing brown eyes.

"So, Mr. Lynns, we meet again," Crane said, calmly and deliberately. "I must say, your previous actions gave me no reason to believe you possessed the intelligence to form an alliance with Mr. Merkel. Then again, you hardly disappointed my opinion in sending him to my cell so late at night..." he sighed, picked up a rock-hard biscuit, and took a bite. "Very foolish, Mr. Lynns."

A deep shade of crimson was spreading up Lynns' neck. He leaned forward and roughly caught the collar of Crane's jumpsuit in both hands.

"I'd watch my mouth if I were you, mister," he growled.

"Oh, but you're not," Crane replied. "You're merely an over-confident thug with an unhealthy fixation on fire."

Lynns grinned.

"That's right, _Scarecrow," _he said. "Isn't that supposed to be what scarecrows fear most?"

Crane sighed.

"Oh, so you're attempting to be clever. How... cliche." He paused, hoping that Scarecrow might have something to add, but his other half remained silent. "As a matter of fact, pyrophobia is not one of my fears. However, I'm much more interested in yours."

"I'll bet," Lynns growled. "Look, Scarefreak, if you want to get out of here, you're gonna start listening to me."

"Oh, Mr. Lynns, there you go again," Crane sighed. "You know you won't get better if you keep avoiding the issue. Don't try to deny your fear; you can't, you know, and it will only excaberate your... condition."

"What? What are you talking about?" snapped Lynns.

"Now, I'm here to help you," Dr. Crane soothed. "I'm going to tell you something, and you tell me what you think of it. Don't worry, it's nothing frightening. Just a little rhyme."

Peter Merkel groaned and turned away.

* * *

_Isn't that supposed to be what scarecrows fear most? _...In "The Wizard of Oz," the Scarecrow says he fears fire more than anything else.


	15. Chapter 15

"...and I, I didn't want to," Daedalus Boch stammered, running a bony hand through dark hair. The fingers of his right hand twitched grotesquely, as if they had a life of their own, and he kept jerking his eyes Dr. Drei as if watching some unfolding action or horror on the concrete wall. In all probability, he was.

"Disorganized schizophrenia," Dr. Abraham remarked quietly, watching Boch's confession from outside the group therapy room.

"Figure that out all by yourself, did you?" Dr. Nestor said acidly. "So that's why Dr. Leland appointed you to assistant director so quickly."

Dr. Abraham raised his eyebrows mildly, but refrained from comment. Inside the room, Boch continued his tortured monologue, gesturing erratically.

"But I had to! It was, it was too far and I was right in the place where it had to be. It had to be, don't you see? I couldn't- I couldn't just leave it there otherwise!"

"Spare us the melodrama," groaned Margaret Pye, flopping her head onto the plastic table and jolting Harley Quinn out of a comfortable rest. "You went nuts, you killed some dudes, you painted with their blood. Get over it."

"Now, Margaret-" began Dr. Drei.

"No, I'm sick of this #$&," Pye snapped back. "Every time you call on Rembrandt over there, we end up hearing the same sorry story all over again. I'm just done with it, okay? I'm done. If I have to listen to 'I didn't want to, but I had to' one more time..." she glared threateningly. Boch didn't seem to notice. In the corner, Jonathan Crane intertwined his fingers, raised his eyebrows slightly, and leaned forward to catch Dr. Drei's response.

"There," Dr. Abraham said, pointing. "That look. I haven't seen that in several weeks. He's planning something."

"I agree," replied Dr. Nestor.

Inside the therapy room, Dr. Crane quietly observed that Daedalus Boch's delusions stemmed from a paralyzing fear of childhood abandonment. Dr. Drei cocked her head quizzically and asked him to explain.

"It could be anything," Dr. Abraham said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "We all think about the future... planning is a mark of rationality and stability in the simpler cases. But..."

"But maybe," rejoined Dr. Nestor, "Victoria Strange's miracle cure isn't as effective as some people like to think."

"What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything, Dr. Abraham," the good doctor snapped. "I'm merely making an observation based on a set of psychological data. That's my job, isn't it? And yours too, or at least it used to be."

Dr. Abraham wisely refrained from comment. On the other side of the plate glass, Dr. Crane smiled gently and carefully removed his glasses.

"He's planning something," Dr. Abraham said, half to himself.

Dr. Nestor smiled and thrust two meaty hands into her coat pockets.

"Oh, yes," she said. "There can be no doubt of that."

* * *

"Just think of it, Sarah," Dr. Crane said. His voice, though quiet, had that ethereal piercing quality of a whisper in a confined space. It was like hearing the ghostly voice of a dead intellectual: calm, clear, and almost painfully sharp on the hard _t_s and bright _s_ sounds. "It's a frightening thought, abandonment. I don't mean lack of a parental figure- no, that's far too simple. It's not that your parents were never there- it's that they were there at some point, and chose to leave you. Perhaps they expected a child of a different gender... or, more frighteningly still, they began to know you as a child and recognized you for what you were. You know, of course, that the bond between parent and child is exceedingly strong in early childhood. The parent knows the child in a deep and fundamental aspect, seeing the unrestrained and unashamed personality taking shape. In a way, the parent sees the child for himself, the natural man. Certainly, we may hide ourselves, but never as children. Very young children do not yet possess the cunning to lie. Of course we all lie, we all try to hide our fear as we mature. We pretend to be people we are not to fit the expectations of others... we disguise our true nature. But can you imagine that, Sarah? To know that the only people who have ever truly known you hated you so much they would rather consider themselves childless... and to know that no one else will ever react differently. Terrifying, isn't it?"

"I... see," Dr. Drei said in smothered tones. "But what does this have to do with Daedalus Boch?"

Dr. Jonathan Crane smiled quietly, polishing his glasses against the rough canvas of the asylum jumpsuit.

"Quite frankly, Dr. Drei... it doesn't."

Margaret Pye raise her head from the table and mouthed the words _MESSED UP _to Peter Merkel. Dr. Drei opened her mouth, shut it, and opened it again, all the while blinking very rapidly. Finally, she seemed to find her voice.

"Okay. Okay, well... I think that's all on that subject. Harley, I think you're next. Why don't you tell us about your long-term goals?"

"That's easy," Harley chirped. "To make people laugh!"

"Well, can you be a little more specific?"

Harley sighed, twirling a long strand of blonde hair around her finger.

"Gee, I dunno. I guess I always thought..." she hesitated, eyes beginning to water ominously. "I guess I always thought I'd settle down someday with... my..."

"Don't say it!" Maggie Pye butted in, thrusting a beefy warning finger in Harley's face. "Don't you even think about saying it! Emo Blood Painter has used up all my drama patience for the week already, and I am not hearing another perfect dude rant!"

"Okay," sniffled Harley. "Okay, fine. I always thought I'd settle down someday with..." she sniffed dramatically, "somebody. But now I just dunno. I guess I'll just take life as it comes, ya know? Roll with the punches. Look for work fillin' in punchlines here and there... it's not so bad. But what about you, Ragman?"

"Who, me?" Peter Merkel's grinning face suddenly emerged from his straightjacket, nearly completely inverted. "Tell me, doctor, does this straightjacket make me look fat? Oh, but seriously. Yessss. Yes, I have plans for the future. But I don't know if a pretty little thing like you would like to hear them."

Dr. Drei nodded seriously.

"I think I can handle it."

"Well," Merkel drawled, his eyes lazily searching the ceiling, "I think I'll escape from Arkham at the earliest convenience and go back to my carefree criminal career. I hear the Museum's got some nice ice on display... it would be a pity, don't you think, to just let it sit there."

"But aren't you afr- aren't you worried about getting caught?" Dr. Drei persisted. "You know the Batman or the police will catch up with you eventually. Doesn't that have any effect on you?"

Merkel appeared to be thinking it over. Finally, he shrugged, and uncrossed his arms.

"Not really," he said. "What's the worst that could happen? I get sent back here? Then, of course, I shall escape Arkham at the earliest convenience and resume my carefree criminal career."

"But," Jonathan Crane suddenly interjected, "there are obstacles to regaining your freedom. Namely, the security measures of this... fine establishment."

"True," Merkel nodded. "But I'm not too worried. You knocked out that lock without any trouble the other night."

Dr. Drei looked about to speak, and Crane quickly added,

"Besides, any society must be well policed in order to function. When you return to the world at large, what will you do when you meet one of... Gotham's finest?"

"One of them?" Merkel asked, with a sly grin. "Only one?"

"Well, say four or five," Crane amended. "You couldn't fight your way ought of that, could you? And even if you did, you couldn't run very far."

"No?"

"No. Trust me. It's just not possible." Crane turned to the others, replacing his glasses. "And, quite frankly, it's not worth it. Overcoming the justice system is completely out of the question, unless you want to overturn society itself."

"And nobody would want to do that," Merkel rejoined. Crane shot him a very quick glance and continued.

"No... you can't fight your way out. You've got to have another way. A... legitimate way."

"Really," said Merkel, twisting unsettlingly in the straitjacket. "And what would that be?"

Dr. Jonathan Crane stared at Peter Merkel without the slightest trace of humor.

"Rehabilitation."

Merkel sighed and groaned.

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes," Crane said. "It's not the most obvious way, but I know it... is the best way."

There was a moment of silence. The Scarecrow's speech was at an end. Dr. Drei coughed quietly, clicked her pen, and leaned a little closer.

"Well, I'm glad to hear you think so, Jon-Dr. Crane," she said. "It's really a sign of remarkable progress on your part. I wish more of our patients would have your attitude. It would make our job a lot easier."

Dr. Crane raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

"You know," Dr. Drei continued uncertainly, "I think that's all the time we have for today... this week, I want you all to think about why you set your goals. Try to come up with the real reason- it doesn't need to be perfectly logical or noble, as long as it's genuine. I mean, I know I do things all the time- well, I buy a sandwich for instance, just because I happen to like bologna." She laughed feebly.

"Or," Crane observed, "because you're afraid of starvation."

"Well- maybe- but mainly because I like the taste. That's all for today, and the orderlies will see you back to your rooms. Jonathan- Dr. Crane-" Dr. Drei hurried over to the Scarecrow's side as the first of the orderlies entered the room. "About what you said about... Boch..."

"Oh, I'm entirely serious," Crane said. "Study his case history, doctor- I'm sure you'll agree."

Two orderlies came to Crane's side, manacles in hand, and motioned for the employed psychiatrist to step away from the disgraced one.

"Although," Crane continued, holding out his hands for the cuffs, "do you know what's even more terrifying?"

Dr. Drei appeared to be having trouble swallowing.

"No," she whispered.

The orderlies were wheeling him to the door now, but before he left the room altogether, Professor Jonathan Crane turned and smiled at the woman.

"They were right."


	16. Chapter 16

The well-tanned man glanced around casually, sculpted arms crossed easily over his chest and blue eyes wandering over the horizon. A slight breeze ruffled his perfect blond hair, and he smiled, flashing a set of teeth normally seen on Colgate commercials and dental implant brochures. Suddenly, he straightened up and held out a manicured hand. A beautiful brunette ran up to him, paused, and delicately placed her hand in his. His smile widened as he drew her in close, draped his other arm over her shoulder. As romantic music swelled to a climax, the perfect couple looked up into the camera and beamed.

Harley Quinn heaved a deep sigh.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she said dreamily.

Crane could barely restrain an eye roll. Harley Quinn had gone from _SpongeBob SquarePants_ to a marathon of _Love in Various Places. _It had begun with _Love in Paris, _progressed to _Love on the High Seas, _and was currently waffling its saccharine, hyper-emotional, over-acted way through _Love in New York. _Crane could feel his brain cell count dropping by the minute.

Onscreen, the well-manicured man and his doe-eyed beauty were staring at each other, entranced. On one side of Jonathan Crane, Harley Quinn sighed happily and snuggled- there was no other word for it- _snuggled_ into Crane's bony side. On the other side, Jane Doe sighed with equal tones and snuggled even closer. Crane groaned and raised his eyes to heaven. So it had come to this. The Master of Fear and Lord of Despair, reduced to watching poorly done romantic comedies while crammed between two women. Crane could feel something within him close to snapping, whether patience, masculinity, or last vestige of sanity, and promptly got to his feet. Ignoring the protests of Harley and Harley-voiced Jane behind him, Jonathan Crane excused himself to the pool table.

Normally, Crane had little time or patience for pool. It was a sport he had never bothered to learn; and besides, watching other men knock small balls towards pockets with large sticks, all the while posturing, boasting, and otherwise showing off, had never really appealed to him. There was striking fear and terror into the hearts of all, and there were meaningless displays of ego-boosting self-flattery. Today, however... Crane glanced back at the TV couch, still occupied by two swooning females in Arkham orange. Today, pool seemed like an oasis in the mind-numbing desert of bad romance flicks.

Three large inmates were circling the table while a few others leaned against the wall and watched with empty eyes. As Crane approached the table, two of the onlookers jerked back to reality and backed out, leaving their cues behind.

"Well, gentlemen," Crane said, picking up an abandoned cue and frowning at the chalkless tip, "mind if I join your game?"

It wasn't really a question, and they all knew it. The leader mumbled something inaudible, carefully maintaining eye contact with the floor, and leaned over to take his shot. For a few minutes, the game progressed in tense silence.

"Hey, doc."

Crane glanced up at that, eyes expressionless behind the thick lenses. It was Garfield Lynns, closely seconded by Peter Merkel. Interesting, that they should allow Lynns back in the recreational room with Crane... again...

"Didn't know you played pool," Lynns commented. Then, to one of the players, "Hey, you... I think this is my game."

Lynns scowled at the man, elbowed him aside, and stole his pool cue. Grinning, wolf-like, he twirled the cue in his hands and came to stand beside Crane. Merkel took up post on the other side of the ex-professor and looked at him sidelong, a slight smile playing over his face.

"That was very clever, you know," Merkel said quietly. "And I think you were right."

Crane raised an eyebrow.

"What, Dr. Drei's fear?" he said, keeping his tone even. Firefly bent over the table for a shot. "Surely that was obvious."

"Maybe," Merkel said. "But still, that was... that was well done. Talking right past her, now that was clever. I could have done that. But throwing her off-guard by playing up her fears..." Merkel smiled tightly. "I think I'm starting to _like _you, Dr. Crane."

"I'm touched."

"So tell me," Lynns said, stepping back from the table and dropping his voice to a near-whisper. "What's this secret way out of Arkham you know about?"

"Yes, Dr. Crane," Merkel added softly. "What's this way past the authorities, not the most obvious, but you know it..."

Crane's jaw tightened. Merkel was too clever by half.

"It's not that we don't _trust _you," Merkel persisted, his voice oily. "I mean... well..."

"It's just, y'know..." Lynns put in. "We just wanna make sure ya know what you're doing."

"Are you questioning me?" Crane asked quietly, sliding his glasses up his nose with a long, bony finger. He stared at Merkel, eyes hard and expressionless. "Well?"

Merkel shifted uneasily, glanced back towards the guards. Lynns held up his big hands in an easy gesture, his smile wide and nervous.

"Whoa, no, of course not."

Crane's eyes narrowed.

"I didn't think so," he remarked blandly. Then, as if noticing for the first time the lack of clacking billiard balls, the unnatural silence around the table, the frozen players staring in a mixture of anticipation and horror: "Oh... is it my turn?"

The lean ex-professor stepped forward, surveyed the table with a bored air, and took his shot. The cue ball bounced off one felt barrier, knocked against the four, the five, and the eight, and sent the six-ball spinning inches within the corner pocket. Crane shrugged diffidently and stepped back from the table. The whole room breathed a little easier.

Peter Merkel had the gall to shake his head and remark, "So close!" Crane merely scowled at him and went back to examining the tip of his pool cue. As if on a signal, the other players resumed their pool games, muttering to each other and shooting brief glances in Crane's direction.

Dr. Crane kept his attention focused on his pool cue and tried not to smile too much. Oh, but that had been delicious. Half of Scarecrow's power, he noted, lay in his fearsome reputation. Never mind that the straw man was sleeping; just the mention of his name would cause fear and trembling in Arkham... he wondered if it would have the same effect in Gotham. Curling bony fingers around the cue stick, he allowed himself a slight smile. Soon, soon... soon he would find out. Crane felt eyes on him and half-turned. Merkel and Lynns were watching him like dogs watching a rabbit hole. Crane's smile widened. Of course. They wanted instructions, reassurance from the leader that the plan was indeed in action.

"Here," Jonathan said, tossing the cue stick to Merkel. The contortionist caught it back-handed and smiled uncertainly. "I'm going back to my cell to rest." Crane smiled, blue eyes electric and unreadable behind the glass. "See you tomorrow."

* * *

"Oh, c'mon doc, lighten up! It's just a joke!"

Dr. Nestor frowned over the tops of her thick-rimmed glasses.

"What is?" she asked.

"Everything! Life, the universe, the Meaning of Life... I just wanna make people laugh!"

Jane Doe giggled and began swinging her legs happily over the side of the therapeutic couch.

"I see," Dr. Nestor replied, scribbling something on her clipboard. "Why don't you tell me about Jonathan Crane?"

"Professor Crane? Aw, he's nice," sighed Jane Doe. "He's gettin' out soon, ya know."

"Yes, I know," Dr. Nestor said. "Did he tell you this?"

"Right-a-rooney!" Jane chirped. "In group therapy!"

Dr. Nestor's frown deepened, and she paused to make a long note on the clipboard.

"Well, Jane," she said, looking up, "we're going to monitor this new development. You have been taking your medication, haven't you?"

Jane Doe made an exaggerated expression of disgust.

"Yecch. I don't like those nasty ol' pills."

"But you have been taking them, haven't you?" Dr. Nestor pressed. Jane laughed, lay down on the couch, and began kicking her feet in the air. Dr. Nestor frowned and began a new tack. "Dr. Carver!"

Jane's feet slowed to a stop. Slowly, she turned her head to face Dr. Nestor.

"Dr. Anne Carver," the psychiatrist repeated.

Jane Doe stared at Dr. Nestor, expressionless.

"I'm sorry, but the doctor isn't here at the moment," she said flatly. "If you'd like to make an appointment or call back later..."

"But you are Dr. Carver," Dr. Nestor pressed.

"The doctor can't see you now," Jane insisted, turning her face to the wall. "The doctor is out."


	17. Chapter 17

Annnd here we go, folks. After over ten chapters of build-up (read:procrastination), the romance begins. Many thanks to the faithful few who still review, and especially to Hush 2.0, who let me know there were still folks interested. (Oh, and Hush: "they were right" refers to Scarecrow's previous suggestion to the doctor that her parents' bad opinion of her was indeed warranted.)

* * *

Crane lay on his thin, lumpy mattress, stared at the high Arkham ceiling, and forced himself to remain still. The evening shift orderlies had come and gone (and he'd taken his medicine like a good little scarecrow), but he knew the video feed was still live. Not that it could pick up much dialogue; the shrieking, screaming, laughing, and weeping of the other inmates provided a convenient aural shield, but... if he was seen pacing, or brooding, or anything that looked remotely like planning... he couldn't risk that. Not tonight.

Oh, but he wanted to pace. Just get up and walk and think... Crane stared at the ceiling, the same ceiling he'd been staring at for over two decades, and lay still.

"Pssst! Professor Crane!"

Against his better judgment, Crane rolled over to face the transparent glass front of his cell. Harley was leaning against her cell front across the hall, looking at him. Though... Crane paused for a moment. There was something different about her.

"I heard you're gettin' out soon!" she said in a loud whisper. Then, she stopped, drew back a little, and her voice deepened and mellowed. "Is it true?"

Crane blinked in surprise. He'd heard Harley's real voice before, but only for a few seconds, a few words or a sentence, and only when the Joker was out of Arkham and showed no signs of returning anytime... Crane shook his head. Of course the Joker was gone. And Harley Quinn was reverting, as per his previous diagnosis, to a more rational, a more natural state of mind and being. Her hair was down, too, curling around her shoulders in soft, tarnished gold waves. He should have noticed that sooner.

"Yes, it's true," Crane said, realizing she was waiting for him.

Harley nodded, her face soft and thoughtful.

"I thought so," she said quietly.

There was a long moment of silence. Crane shifted awkwardly. He vaguely felt that Harley had the upper hand- she could, after all, blackmail her way into a joint escape attempt- and should thus be terrorized or manipulated or paid off as a creditable threat. He had, regrettably, been rash, and Harley now had full rights to exploit his weakness. But, on the other hand... Crane hesitated, deliberating.

"Do... do you want to come with us?" he said, finally.

_Of course she would, _he thought bitterly, keeping his eyes focused on the cement flooring. She would smile _that _smile and bounce on the bed and say, _Gee, Professor, I thought you'd never ask! _in her own little smug, sarcastic way...

...and it suddenly occurred to Crane that it wouldn't bother him if she did. Now there was an unsettling thought.

"No."

Harley's voice broke in on Crane's reverie. He looked up, startled, to see her turning away from the glass, playing with a long, blonde strand of hair, face cast into shadow.

"No, I- I think I'm better off where I am."

Crane swallowed hard. So it would be retirement, then. No dramatic finish, no final crime spree in the Joker's honor, no last, legendary fight with the Dark Knight...

"Are- are you sure?"

She laughed then, a short, barking sound laced with bitterness.

"What's the matter? Afraid people won't take me _seriously?_"

She turned back to face him, dropping her hair and looking at him with sad, quiet eyes. Crane drew his breath in. She looked so very, terribly vulnerable in that moment.

"Listen, Harley..."

"Don't worry, Professor," Harley said, with a wry smile. "I can take care of myself in here."

But suddenly, Crane wasn't so sure of that

* * *

The sun rose slowly, arduously, on Gotham City, tinting the sky an angry red-orange and sending piercing beams of sunlight through the corporate smog. In Arkham Asylum, a few fainthearted sunbeams filtered through the eastern windows to put dim touches of yellow light on the spattered white walls. Jonathan Crane woke with a start, jolted from shattered, ill-pieced dreams, dreams that danced through his head in dead and dusty brown and vivid, artery-spurting crimson.

Today was the day. Crane's lips curved into a thin, resolute smile that foretold no good for anyone. The guards, ignorant and calloused fools that they were, suspected nothing; the brutish orderlies still less. Fools. They would all soon learn what befell those who underestimated the Scarecrow.

Crane had a slight misgiving when his alter failed to respond, but brushed past it, flush with the glory of an unfolding plan. The doctors, simpering, patronizing idiots, were all convinced he was weak. The mad doctor could almost pity them their folly- almost, but not quite. Not enough to spare them from his just and imminent wrath, at least.

The ex-professor shot a brief glance across the hall at Harley Quinn, sleeping peacefully with her back to the clear glass front. For a moment, he was half tempted to say something just to wake her up, to ask her one more time if she wouldn't join him... It wasn't safe in Arkham, couldn't she see that? And she wasn't feared as he was... she wasn't _safe._

The rattling, swerving wheels of the plastic medication carts told Crane the orderlies were approaching. He suppressed a smile and lay quite still. The orderlies unlocked his cell, one of them hanging back in the hallway while the other walked in to hand out medication, per standard safety measures. Luckily for Jonathan, he already knew how to circumvent that.

"C'mon, doc, wake up," the first orderly grunted, prodding Crane's shoulder with a meaty hand. Crane lay completely still, forcing himself to remain limp and unthreatening. The orderly groaned. "Not again. Hey, Hal, gimme a hand here."

_Perfect. _Jonathan waited, listening to the orderly's footsteps and gauging the man's distance from the bed, until the orderly was standing just behind the other. He couldn't have asked for a better position. Without warning, Crane threw himself off the bed and sprinted for the door. The first orderly cursed in suprise; the second made a grab for the back of Crane's jumpsuit and missed. Within seconds, Crane had reached the door- and, more importantly, the plastic cart which held the patients' medication.

Jonathan Crane had lived in Arkham for the better part of two decades, and had made good use of his time in the dark asylum. He paused at the cart just long enough to snatch three syringes of tranquilizers from the bottom shelf. In one quick movement, he swiveled around, and the first syringe buried itself in the forearm of the second orderly. The first orderly swore and grabbed Crane's right arm, twisting it painfully behind the disgraced doctor's back. Crane ignored the pain and grappled for a moment with the safety tip on the second syringe in his left hand. Within seconds, both orderlies were slumped on the floor, out cold.

Crane glanced at the security camera. No alarms yet; he had to move fast. Rolling the first orderly onto his stomach, Crane relieved the man of his plastic key card and white coat, then repeated the same action with the second orderly. The coat, which was about four sizes too big, wouldn't fool any Arkham worker, but it might throw the camera off. Crane dragged the two orderlies behind his bed, slid his arms into the baggy coat, and walked into the hallway, pushing the cart in front of him.

A feeling of intense satisfaction washed over Crane as he watched the inmate three doors down yawn, glance at him, and do a sudden double-take, actually falling off the bed. _Ladies and gentlemen... Jonathan Crane, the Scarecrow!_

Crane slid the card into Merkel's lock and couldn't resist a smug smile as the contortionist gawked in surprise for a moment. Crane tossed him the second coat and key card.

"Go get your friend," he said.

For once, Peter Merkel had nothing to say.

While Ragdoll went to spring Garfield Lynns, Crane made his way down the hallway to Killer Croc's old cell, ignoring the admiring stares, shouted encouragements, and pleas for freedom from the other inmates. Joker, of course, would have set them all free to wreak havoc. But Crane prided himself on his finesse and planning; and this plan depended on disappearing quickly and without fanfare. At least... no fanfare _yet. _

"Beware the stare of Mary Shaw," Crane murmured, sliding the key through the electronic lock. The cell had been empty for years, drained of water but still maintained in Arkham, a relic of an era fast slipping away. "She has no children, only dolls..."

Merkel and Lynns joined him, Lynns still glancing nervously over his shoulder.

"What now, doc?" he asked.

Crane motioned lazily at the open cell.

"Killer Croc's old holding cell," he informed them. "I'm sure you remember him. They had to build it specially. You know, for his..." he glanced at Lynns, who swallowed hard. "_Condition. _I took the opportunity of adding a few surprises of my own. Please, gentlemen... come in."

Merkel and Lynns traded glances. Crane could tell they were both nervous; nervous and confused. He smiled thinly.

"They used to keep this tank full of water," he said, stepping into the wide, shallow excavation. "It eased his pain a little. Not that they ever cared about him, but..." Crane shrugged. "Croc tended to disembowel fewer employees when he was comfortable. I think he killed... no, the number of murdered guards escapes me. He gave Cash his hook, you know. Separated his hand from his arm and took it back into the tank to gnaw. The water reeked for weeks after that."

"Uh, no offense, doctor," Merkel put in, "but... we should get a move on, yes?"

Crane glanced at him lazily.

"That's when they put in the filter vent," he continued. "To drain the... polluted... water. And that's when I took a hand in things. Observe."

He walked over to the filter grate, fiddled with the screws for a moment, and lifted it aside. Beneath lay a dark, roughly circular hole that led away into blackness. Cold, fetid air wafted up at them, the olfactory echo of Killer Croc's runoff.

"Gentlemen," Crane said dryly, "say hello to freedom."

* * *

Harley Quinn felt herself waking up slowly. There was something vaguely different about her bed; maybe she'd rolled off onto the floor during the night. And the room had become much colder... with a sigh, Harley forced her eyes open. It didn't do much good; it was pitch black in the room, and she could see about as much with her eyes open as she could with them closed. That was almost funny. Harley laughed, softly. The whole world felt dizzy and drugged; Dr. Abraham must have slipped a sedative into her medication. Harley raised an arm to rub her eyes.

Wait. There was something wrong here... Harley again tried to raise her arm, to no avail. There was something soft and unyielding wrapped around both her arms and her legs... Harley gulped. Her arms had been tied to the bedposts with something fabric- she guessed sheets or pillowcases- and her legs were handcuffed to something wooden. Not good.

Harley cleared her throat, anxiously trying to peer through the darkness.

"H-hello? Is anybody there?"

There was a long moment of silence. Then, from somewhere in the blackness, a voice chirped,

"I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzelle! But, please, just call me Harley... everyone does!"


	18. Chapter 18

The water was much colder than he remembered. Sloshing knee-deep in stagnant runoff water and nearly doubled over to fit within the disused shaft, Jonathan Crane listened to the heavy breathing of Garfield Lynns and estimated the water's temperature. Maybe forty degrees. Maybe. Lynns was uncomfortable and nervous; the pitch-black tunnel did not seem to sit well with the pyromaniac.

_Interestingly, Lynns calls himself 'Firefly'- a nocturnal insect which illuminates the darkness. I diagnosis mild nyctophobia, lygophobia, perhaps a touch of claustrophobia as well._

"How much farther?" grunted Lynns, panting heavily.

Crane didn't answer, merely put out one thin hand and placed it flat against the rough concrete. The grate should be any few feet along now... he stopped moving when his hand touched something cold and hard and thin. It was the grate lever. Behind the lanky ex-professor, Lynns stopped too late and stumbled over Merkel, who giggled nervously and hissed curses at Firefly.

"Lynns," Crane said shortly. The whispering fell silent immediately. "Come here. This lever... it must be lowered into the open position. No, idiot! Do you not understand the meaning of the word 'lowered?'... Yes, like that! Now pull it to the right. You do know which side is right, do you not?"

Apparently Lynns did; there was a loud, rusty creak and a sound like a fifty-year-old bicycle chain jumping gears, and the grate slid upwards. A stiff breeze wafted out of the new tunnel, heavy with the scent of water and freedom. Crane smiled to himself and half-crouched through the doorway.

"A long time ago, I... had a brilliant idea," Crane said softly. "Instead of escaping from Arkham and attempting to poison the city, as per my usual planning, I terrified an orderly into assisting me to leave my cell and... relocate here. Here, beneath Arkham, to a network of subterranean caverns. I contacted those moronic fools I then called henchmen and recreated my terror-inducing operation... later, they re-routed the Gotham water supply to a more secure pipeline system. But at the time, the central water supply ran through this cavern. I, of course, planned to fill it with toxin."

"You had a hideout down here?" Merkel sounded almost impressed.

"Of course. And a working chemical manufacturing machine, as well. Imagine... a whole city screaming in fear... but that was hardly the best part. I gassed the Batman, sending him into a spiral of horrific hallucinations, and..." Crane couldn't resist a bitter snigger, "eventually earning him a cell in Arkham. It was perhaps my greatest triumph. Batman himself, straightjacked and locked away where he belongs... right alongside the rest of us."

"It didn't last though, did it?" came Merkel's voice. Crane scowled.

"Those fools at Arkham! They should have unmasked him! But they didn't... they didn't..." he sighed, shaking his head regretfully. "The Batman escaped, somehow traced me to the caverns, and irreparably upset the experiment. A pity, a great pity. But I at least had the foresight to widen the cavern, improve and disguise some of the tunnels, and..."

Crane stopped. The water was getting shallower and shallower, meaning he was close to the ruined machinery. Groping blindly, he managed to lay hands on a rusted bar, and pulled himself out of the cold water and onto wet concrete. There was more splashing behind him as Lynns and Merkel followed his example. Crane waited for a moment, breathing deeply, and pulled himself upright. Feeling his way awkwardly around the broken machinery, he made his way to the stalagmited wall. It would still be here, of course... it must still be here.

Jonathan Crane reached behind the largest stalagmite and- oh, thank God, it was still there- felt something hard and smooth and plastic. He pulled out the briefcase and snapped it open, long, bony fingers exploring the soft interior. Hopefully the flashlight batteries would still be usuable.

CLICK. The powerful beam caught Peter Merkel in the face, and the contortionist instinctively scowled and squinted into the light. Crane swept the beam across the cavern, slightly disappointed to see that the refining machinery had rusted and warped, the old central entrance was boarded up and cobwebbed, and the original control station had snapped its wires and fallen to rot in a pool of murky water. The old hideout had fallen into disrepair. Fortunately, however, it would still serve its purpose.

Crane directed the flashlight beam back towards the briefcase. The next items was a rubber gas mask and a second flashlight- Crane pulled them out and turned to Merkel and Lynns, who were watching him expectantly. After a brief moment of hesitation, Crane tossed the gas mask to Lynns and the flashlight to Merkel. Worst case scenario, he wanted Lynns up and fighting if the Batman dropped in. Merkel immediately started complaining and making snarky comments about Firefly not having the light, but Crane didn't hear. He was looking into the briefcase and almost smiling.

**_Hello, Jonny. _**

Crane heaved a deep sigh of relief and happiness as he pulled the mask over his face. It had worked, it had worked! Scarecrow was back, at last, and he was going to escape and wreak havoc in Gotham and bring Batman to his knees in terror... it was a wonderful feeling.

Jonathan pulled on the red shirt and burlap gloves, giving the toxin jets in the fingers an experimental tug. He was pleased to see they were in excellent working condition, but nothing could compare to the joy, the relief, of having Scarecrow back.

"And now," Crane said, feeling more confident than he had in ages, "we follow that staircase back. It..." he couldn't resist a snigger... "it connects to a tunnel which runs directly into the Arkham vault."

"Vault?" Lynns echoed.

"Why yes, fire-less fly," Merkel smirked. "Don't you wonder where your flamethrower and bug head go after the good doctors check them at the door?"

"Precisely," Crane nodded. "And, quite conveniently, the vault is located directly beneath the central control booth. We shall merely melt our way through the floor and..." he shrugged at Lynns. "We have the asylum."

"Oh yes?" Merkel prodded. "And then what?"

"And then," Crane said, begin to smile beneath the burlap, "unlike some people, I am not too proud to learn from a fellow inmate's successes. We shall then release all the inmates, pump fear gas throughout the asylum, and escape in the midst of the chaos. With any luck, Batman should be too busy rounding up the others to worry about us. Perfect, is it not?"

_"Brilliant."_

Crane swallowed hard, half-turning. He didn't recognize that voice... in the darkness behind the tunnel, two gleaming white eyes narrowed menacingly. A dark form stepped up from the tunnel, cape flaring theatrically.

**"You," **Scarecrow hissed, backing up slowly and surreptiously extending his right arm towards a nearby control panel, **"I might have guessed you'd show up... sooner or later!"**

At the last word, the spindly villain suddenly pulled down a switch. Something heavy and metal flew from the ceiling and landed in a crash, in a splash, missing the caped form by a matter of feet.

"It's over, Crane," the figure said. "As soon as I got the call, I suspected you might try something in your old hide-out. Tell me where Harley Quinn is, and- AAAAAAAAAH!"

His words ended as Scarecrow flipped the switch back up. Electricity sparked through the machinery, flicking across the water and illuminating the entire cavern. Scarecrow cackled and turned away to enter the correct security code in the door panel. Let the Bat fry! All he wanted was his beautiful canisters of fear, still awaiting his touch in the depths of the vault...

_But what about Harley? _Crane thought, almost anxious. _He said something about Harley Qui-_

Scarecrow waved it away, still relishing the Bat-screams of anguish, which echoed delightfully in the shadowy cavern. Abruptly, the machine shorted out. The screams stopped at the same moment, and there was a heavy splash, followed by silence.

"Is he... dead?" Lynns ventured.

**"Who cares?" **spat Scarecrow. **"The door is open! Come, follow, follow, follow, follow... follow, follow, follow me."**

And the scarecrow, and the doctor, and the ragdoll, and the firefly stepped through the doorway into the darkness of a new tunnel, leaving the cavern dark and still behind them. But, as the last of their flashlight beams died away, and the creak of a second door opening far down the tunnel floated back into the cave, there was the faint sound of something moving in the water.

* * *

"W-why are you doing this?" Harley asked, doing her best to keep her voice level and unshaking. "I never hurt you, Annie... I thought we were friends."

Jane Doe glared at her, eyes wild in the flickering light of a malfunctioning patrol flashlight.

"I'm Harley Quinn!" she insisted, in Harley's voice. "I'm Dr. Harleen Quinzelle!"

"No," Harley said, her voice deepening into Dr. Quinzelle's, "you've got it all wrong, Annie. I'm Dr. Quinzelle. You- you're confused. Jane. You need help."

"I think you're the one who's got it wrong," Jane said, in Dr. Quinzelle's voice. "I'm Dr. Quinzelle. I want to help you, Jane. The problem is... I don't know who you are."

She turned away and walked away into the darkness. Harley sighed and relaxed onto her bed, tears welling up in her eyes. She had been tied to her bed- God only knew how Jane had managed to remove it from the cell- and carried to... someplace dark. Jane's feet made sharp clicking when she walked, and Harley could dimly make out the familiar outline of a fluourescent rectangle on the ceiling. Probably one of Arkham's many empty and half-forgotten therapy rooms...

Jane reappeared, rolling a surgical tray in front of her.

"Now Jane," she said, still in Dr. Quinzelle's voice, "I want to help you, I really do. But sometimes-" her voice suddenly went high and wild- "ya gotta give somebody a little _tough love, _know what I mean?"

With an enormous grin and wink at Harley, Jane Doe turned back to the tray and began fiddling with something that gleamed briefly in the flickering light.

"Don't worry, it'll only hurt for a _minute!"_

* * *

Crane glanced around the interior of the vault. At one time, the vault had been nothing more than an office supply cabinet housing things like disassembled freezing bombs, the Riddler's latest puzzle, and the Joker's fatal "Bang!" gun. Over the years, it had expanded to include exploding pocketwatches, 10/6 circuitry cards, electrified super-soakers, poison-coated calendar pages, and knives. Many, many knives. Mr. Zsasz' incarceration had marked the beginning of a new era; the cabinet was replaced with the vault, the guards began carrying Tasers instead of billy clubs, and the watchtower snipers shot to kill. Looking around the full shelves of the vault, Crane began to feel that even those days had passed. The shelves were crammed full of gimmicks, half of which Crane did not recognize. A pig mask lay on a nearby shelf, tipped against a pack of razor-edged Joker cards. Automatically, Crane's hand shot out and he pocketed the cards. Joker wouldn't be needing them any time soon.

Across the room, Firefly was strapping himself into a large metal contraption that appeared to be half rocket booster, half flamethrower. Ragdoll, already clad in a patchwork burlap outfit with stitched X's for eyeholes, was curled around a nearby shelf post, mocking Lynns. Crane scanned the shelves, spotted thirty-seven confiscated canisters of fear toxin, and busied himself with loading them into storage crates.

_But what about Harley? _The thought would not go away. Crane shook his head. This was no time to be worrying about a colleague. He had to focus. Much as he would have liked it, Batman's death was not certain- which was to say, he would be back sooner or later, probably much angrier and less likely to pull punches. It had happened so many times already... Crane sighed, anticipating the vigilante's fist thudding into his face. Maybe this time he would get a chance to spray Batman with fear toxin and laugh before the Dark Knight rebounded and unleashed painful justice on him.

"Lynns!" he snapped. "Are you ready yet?"

Lynns paused, looked back at him for a moment, and fitted the last piece of the uniform on- the mask. And Crane had to admit, it was a pretty piece of metalwork. A stylized insect head, it had the advantage of concealing the wearer's head and giving him an utterly foreign, unknown- **_fear of the unknown, perhaps the most inherent phobia to plague mankind- _**appearance.

"Hey, professor," Lynns called, his voice strange and damped inside the mask, "call me Firefly!"

With that, the pyromaniac clenched his right fist. Flames shot out of the machine on his back- it was, indeed, a rocket booster- and he flew up to the ceiling, circling dramatically like an insect about to land. Lynns- Firefly- held his left hand up, open-palmed, to the ceiling, and sent a blaze of white-hot flame across the metal. The vault ceiling began to droop and melt; within a few seconds, Firefly had melted a hole large enough to fly through. He disappeared through the hole, to be greeted by shouts of surprise and gunfire. Crane could hear the drone of Firefly's jetpack, punctuated by screams and curses and the heavy roar of the flamethrower. After a few minutes, Firefly's head appeared at the hole.

"We're all set, professor," he called down, and held out a gloved hand to pull Crane up.


	19. Chapter 19

The Scarecrow sighed happily and collapsed into the leatherbacked chair in front of the main console. The guards- God rest their souls- had done their duty well; a half-dozen alarm lights flashed angrily from the wall and screens. There had been a klaxon siren as well, but after forty seconds of obnoxious blaring sounds, Firefly had sent a stream of napalm its direction. Half the asylum would be responding in a few seconds... Scarecrow sniggered. He almost pitied them; how were they to know that a six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound man in an insect suit was waiting to melt their faces off at the door? Or that a burlap-clad contortionist was inching his way through the ventilation system, dragging thirty-two canisters of concentrated terror behind him? He almost pitied them... if it hadn't been so satisfying.

And, of course, there was the matter of the felled Batman. Scarecrow allowed himself a wide, stitched grin, and leaned back in the chair. He was far too intelligent to suppose the Dark Knight would stay down, but by the time Batman _did _get up... well... all of Arkham would be screaming in fear. That ought to keep the interfering Bat occupied for a while. Life was good.

_But what about Harley?_

Scarecrow sighed impatiently. If only Jonathan would shut up about Harley...

_Look, we've comandeered the command center of Arkham Asylum. The least we can do is check her cell with the security camera._

**_Why bother? We've got the entire Asylum in our power and at least half a dozen canister of fear toxin ready. Let's rig up a nice little... wellllcome for the Batman before filling the Asylum with fear... literally! _**

_Not with Harley inside!_

Scarecrow scowled.

_**We are **_**not _jeapordizing our plan for the Joker's girl! Let that stupid clown worry about her himself!_**

_But- but, wait, you don't-_

**_Not. Happening. Understand?_**

"-listening? Hey, doc, you're zoning out on me again!" Merkel was saying. "You really do have problems, don't ya?"

And the idiot actually had the gall to wave a hand in front of Scarecrow's mask. A bony hand shot out and caught Merkel's wrist in a viselike wrist.

**"Care to repeat that little comment?" **Scarecrow hissed.

"No... no," gulped Merkel, carefully avoiding eye contact. "I was saying, uh... I was saying that everything's set. Rigged to fill the asylum with gas at the touch of a button." He held up a small black remote. "The insect helped. I even _dropped _by and said hello to dear Dr. Drei. She'd send her compliments, but she's a bit tied up at the moment."

Scarecrow nodded approvingly and turned back to the control panel. Time to distract the guards... and he knew exactly how to do it. Turning the central dial to OPEN DOOR, he flipped switch after switch- Cellblock A, Wing 1, Cellblock B, Wing 1, Cellblock C, Wing 1, Cellblock A, Wing 2... Somewhere in the asylum, an alarm began to wail. With a loud _whooosh _and puff of heat, Firefly came to hover just behind Scarecrow.

"Nice going, doc," he said, and if Crane had been more attentive, he might have noticed the smirk in Lynns' voice and wondered at it. But all he could think about was Harley- Harley, and the gas rigged to fill the asylum.

Suddenly, there was another sound- a series of clicks, and the static crackle of a police bullhorn turning on.

"Jonathan Crane, this is the Gotham City Police. We have you surrounded! Come out with your hands up, and nobody will get hurt!" a harsh voice barked.

Scarecrow drew in a long breath and reached into his pocket for a straw, one of those special straws he'd worn in his costume and broken at last need.

**"Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements," **he muttered grimly. "The Gotham Police are getting faster... average response time used to be around five and three-quarters of a minute."

"Come out with your hands out, Crane!" blared the bullhorn.

**"You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martins," **Scarecrow rasped. Taking half a dozen straws firmly in hand, he snapped them in two. Instantly, a thin vapor began to rise from the snapped straws. Scarecrow reached for the door, wrenched it open a few inches, and lobbed the straws into the hall outside the guard station.

"Look out, men! Masks on! Masks- AAAAAAAAAAH!"

Scarecrow cackled gleefully. Oh, the fools! It had been so long since he heard that delightful shrieking... but apparently, the police were no more intelligent now than they were when he had entered Arkham Asylum. Masks on, indeed! And then there was a crackling sound behind him. He whirled around to see a fountain of fiery sparks shooting from the floor, inscribing a circle of fire in the same area as Firefly's welding.

**"It's the Batman!" **Scarecrow shouted.

"Yessss. Yes, I'm afraid it is," Merkel nodded, and there was something in his voice that Scarecrow didn't quite like. Scarecrow's eyes narrowed and he turned to face the burlap-clad villain. Ragdoll had picked up a length of rope, and was turning it over and over in his hands, a malicious smirk spreading across his face. "You see, doc, he got a special tip-off. Him and the police."

**"What is the meaning of this trickery?" **hissed Scarecrow.

"I'd thought it was clear, _doc," _Ragdoll grinned insolently. "The firebug and me are stepping out on this one. See, we liked your escape plan- up to a point. But," he shrugged, "there's really only room for _one _dandy freak on this team, and that's me! So I'll be see-"

Scarecrow didn't stop to reason, to think, to remind himself that it might be a bad idea. He merely leapt forward, acting on pure instinct, and brought a hard, bony hand down hard on Ragdoll's deltoid. Contortionist though he be, Ragdoll was only human. He let out a choked gasp and fell forward- straight into a hard chop to the solar plexus from Scarecrow's other hand.

And then Scarecrow was retreating, jumping to the right and landing in a more-painful-than-he-remembered roll to avoid Firefly's charge. For a moment, he was taken aback- and suddenly remembered the mask. Firefly had put on his mask- which meant he had taken off the gas mask. Scarecrow spun around and saw Ragdoll, who was groaning on the floor and clutching his side, fumbling with the mask. A kick sent the mask flying to the opposite corner. Scarecrow had the brief satisfaction of seeing a look of pure terror cross Ragdoll's face.

"Don't..." he began.

**"Sweet dreams," **Scarecrow said cruelly, and sent a cloud of fear gas into the man's face. Merkel sucked in his breath to hold it. Then he coughed. Then he began to scream.

"That's enough, Crane," came a low voice from behind Scarecrow, and the stitched man spun around to see a masked vigilante standing quietly over the felled Firefly.

And it wasn't Batman. The mask, the cape, the suit- were all Batman's. But the jaw, and the way he held himself... and the voice. The voice was all wrong. It was higher somehow, less polished, less certain. The climax of the battle had arrived, but it was wrong, all wrong. It wasn't even Batman. Scarecrow let out a harsh, despairing laugh, and fogged the air with fear toxin.

No, it certainly wasn't Batman. _He _would have known better, he would have worn a mask. Scarecrow turned and fled back down into darkness.

* * *

_"...there's only room for one dandy freak on this team, and that's me!" _Ragdoll's line from the "Sinister Six" storyline after he betrays Jervis Tetch.


	20. Chapter 20

Crane splashed through the freezing water, halfway between laughter and sobbing. The flashlight was gone, but it didn't matter; he didn't need light anymore, he didn't need it. He knew where he was going... where he should have gone all along. There were crows in front of him now, darting wildly here and there in an effort to escape him. Without thinking, he threw back his head and let out a sound between a laugh and a scream. The crows were flying faster now, bouncing off invisible walls, careening perilously close to his arm. Somewhere, someone was screaming.

_**The Batman.**_

Yes, it was. It must be. Except... it wasn't! And Crane was laughing again, the crows clouding his vision in a flurry of black feathers. He brushed aside the dry cornstalks and began to chase them. He never remembered how he got to the door, only that he was suddenly standing in a dry, dim corridor with one shoulder brushed against the rough cement and the other pressed against something hard and smooth. Crane looked for the ancient doorknob and saw a crow.

**_Jonathan... you're hallucinating. Slow down... get a... grip. _**

Scarecrow sounded exhausted. Jonathan blinked, swallowed, and reached for the doorknob. It was hard and cold and solid, slightly roughened by years of age and very, very corporeal. The knob emitted an angry squeal as Crane twisted it; the rusted hinges grated painfully as the door shuddered free from its rust-sealed frame. Crane sighed, relief sliding over him. From here on out, it would be much, much easier. A quick walk through the basement, past the derelict therapy rooms, through the grate and into the disused cistern, and he would emerge home free just outside the high wall. Crane breathed in deeply and opened the door. The next moment, he stepped back, aghast. There was a light in the tunnel.

"...and then I guess I'll find Mistah J an' the babies..." the voice wafted down the tunnel, and for a moment Crane felt his dismay turn to relief. Harley! It was only Harley. But, just as quickly, the suspicion- he wouldn't say _fear- _returned.

_What's she doing here? How did she even find her way... and she knows the Joker's dead! _

Ignoring the mutter of protest from Scarecrow, Crane began to run down the winding corridor. The faint, faraway light taunted him from the far end of the tunnel, warmer than a flashlight beam. Someone had fixed the breaker to one of the old "confidential" therapy rooms... he cursed under his breath as he passed the first of the beaten steel doors. There were still a few of the ancient chamber-of-horrors, dating back to the Elizabeth Arkham days- small, stone-walled rooms far enough removed from the main asylum to guarantee that the patient's screams would alert no one. Some contained decayed water chambers or ancient shock machines; nearly all had restraint tables. He'd even used a few himself, in the early days of covert experimentation and testing, before the mask became public.

"...so I guess I gotta say, sorry, but-"

Crane spotted the lit doorway and flung it open. Instantly, a fully costumed Harley Quinn whirled around and threw a stunning high kick across his chin. Crane saw stars and staggered backwards. What the...

"JONATHAN!" someone screamed.

And he then saw Harley, the real Harley, strapped to the table. Her hair was rumpled and sweaty, her face streaked with tears. She was still wearing the standard asylum jumpsuit, and Crane drew his breath in sharply when he saw scarlet droplets across the collar.

"Harley," he gasped, still reeling from the uppercut, "what happened?"

"Now, now, everyone knows it's not nice ta stick yer nose into other people's business!" the costumed harlequin scolded, wagging a gloved finger. "Butt _out, _Professor Crane, or I'll have to-"

"It's Annie!" Harley shouted, struggling against the restraints. "I mean, it's Jane! Jane Doe!"

Crane ducked just in time to avoid a flying scalpel, and narrowly avoided an acrobatic punch from the faux-Harley. Jane Doe did an easy flip- even the gymnastic style was Harley's- and pouted adorably at him.

"Yer no fun anymore, Professor," she said, and reached for something off the rolling medical tray.

Crane fell back, watching her and desperately trying to formulate a plan for attack. She would probably come in fast and strong and acrobatic, just like Harley- all he needed was an opening, an unguarded side or shoulder, pressure points at the neck and throat-

**_Gas her._**

No, he couldn't. To gas Jane would be to gas Harley... and he had no antidote readily available, either. It was out of the question.

Jane Doe made her move, tossing three more knives at Crane's torso with easy accuracy and springing forward for a flying kick attack. Crane dodged the cutlery, sidestepped, and hammered Doe's shoulders with the hard edges of his hands. It was a mistake. She seized his wrists, catapulted him backwards, and sprang upright in one fluid motion, the bells on her cap jingling merrily. Crane went reeling into the table, almost falling on top of Harley Quinn.

**_Do it, you idiot!_**

Doe was smiling now, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Crane's jaw throbbed, his shins still smarting from the sudden trip across the concrete. It was uncanny, the way Jane Doe sounded, moved, even fought like Harley Quinn. It couldn't be good.

Without warning, Doe cartweeled forward. Setting his jaw, Crane braced himself to meet her. The two traded blows, neatly blocking the other's fist... it was traditional karate against crane-style kung fu, with Crane slowly retreating, drawing her forward, until he suddenly stepped forward to fell Doe with a blow to the throat.

She blocked it and sent him tumbling with a well-placed blow to the shoulderblade. He hit the concrete hard, pain radiating through his entire body. When had fighting become this painful? Crane rolled over, spitting out blood, and looked up, expecting to see the harlequin-clad Doe flying at him once again. What he saw was something far, far worse. Jane Doe had fallen back to the table, seized Harley Quinn by the hair, and held a scalpel to the woman's throat.

"Ah, ah, ah," Doe called mockingly. "Don't make any sudden moves, Professor, or you'll have ta clean up a big mess all by yourself."

**_GAS HER ALREADY!_**

Reluctantly, Crane slowly lifted a hand as if in surrender, switching on the toxin supply as he did so. His eyes shot to Harley, and he nodded slightly, hoping she would get the hint. Harley's eyes widened, and Crane sincerely hoped she was holding her breath. Very slowly and deliberately, he pointed his index finger at Jane Doe.

"There's just one problem," he hissed.

"And what's that?" Doe asked, voice unnaturally high and cheery.

Crane ground his teeth together and jerked his thumb out, triggering the release valve inside the glove.

"You're not Harley Quinn."

A thin, orange vapor shot out of the glove and surrounded Doe's face. True to Harley-form, she gasped in exaggerated horror. Crane smiled grimly, watching as Doe stumbled back, the knife falling from a shaking hand.

"No! No! NOOOOO!" she screamed, and Crane was gratified to hear her voice deepen to its natural tone. "I... I... no! I won't! I am, I am, I am! I can't find myself... I can't see... no! No! No. I won't. I won't let it happen! I. WON'T!"

Doe's hands balled into fists, her whole frame stiffening in an effort to overcome the shivering. Her eyes narrowed, glaring at something unseen, and she took a stiff, shuddering step forward. Somewhere, Scarecrow was laughing weakly at her pitiful attempts to overcome-

"Professor..."

Crane's eyes snapped back to Harley. She stared at him with a mix of entreaty and horror, eyes wide and glassy. The cracking leather restraints were taut against the jumpsuit, and she breathed quickly, shallowly, jaw clenched tightly shut. Crane briefly closed his eyes, clenching his own jaw. It was all right, they could work through this... he would just have to walk a bit quicker, keep her moving, keep her grounded... He fumbled in his pocket for the Joker cards. He would cut through the restraints and work from there. Harley shuddered and recoiled when he stepped close to her, blonde hair tumbling into her face. He cursed himself and reached for the restraints. The steely cards had kept their edge surprisingly well; it was the work of a few seconds to sever the rough leather bands about Harley's shoulders. Ignoring the increasingly terrified ranting from Jane Doe, who was currently attacking the wall with a scalpel, Crane cut through the waist and ankle bands.

Harley bolted upright and clung to him like a terrified child. With a dull shock, he realized that she was crying and repeating his name over and over again. Even more surprisingly, it didn't bother him at all. Gently, hesitantly, he placed a hand on Harley's shaking back.

At that moment, the door shot open and hit the cement wall with a spectacular clashing clang. Throwing an arm around Harley's shoulders, Crane whirled around to see the Batman filling the doorway. His eyes narrowed to white slits, he stepped slowly, deliberately into the room, water trickling down the mask and dripping silently from the edges of the cowl. Crane swallowed. Whomever this newcomer might be, he certainly had the glare down pat.

"Crane," the hero growled, voice heavy with accusation.

_**Run!**_

Crane backed up slowly, eyeing the vigilante warily. He might be able to slip past Batman- might- but not with Harley clinging to his arm.

**_So leave her._**

_What? I can't just... look, you don't understand. Joker's _dead.

There was a moment of exhausted silence from Scarecrow. The Batman took a slow, threatening step forward, tossing the cape back over one shoulder.

**_Leave her..._**

_But I... I can't. You don't understand, Scarecrow, listen-_

"It's_ over_, Crane."

**_Leave her, or I'll leave you._**

Crane stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded. And suddenly, things began to happen very quickly. Batman brought back one black-gloved hand for a mighty blow, Harley buried her face in Crane's shoulder, and Jane Doe picked that instant to look up from assaulting the wall. Her eyes took in Batman, and she let out a piercing, despairing shriek. The cipher launched herself off the wall towards Batman, scalpel disappearing into the folds of the rippling cape, and Batman let out a startled grunt. Crane didn't wait for Batman to recover and strike back. He reached for the razor-edged Joker cards and tossed them haphazardly in Batman's direction. Predictably, the Dark Knight ducked- and Crane bolted past him into the hallway, dragging Harley behind him.

Without looking back, Crane slammed the door shut and drove the bolt home. There was a dull thump and the entire doorframe shuddered as something slammed into the door from the inside- either Batman's fist, or a very unlucky sociopath. Crane didn't care which.

"Harley?" he ventured, keeping his voice soft and quiet. "Are you... all right?"

Harley whimpered and tightened her grip on his arm. Crane tried to brush away some of her loose hair to see her face.

"Don't..." Harley stiffened, burying her face in Crane's shoulder. "I... don't want to see."

"You don't have to. I..." Crane hesitated, trying to find the right words, "I can take you back if you want."

"No. _No." _She was crying again, harder this time. "You don't understand. I want to stay here. I want... I want to stay here. With you."

There was a low, threatening murmur from Scarecrow. Crane ignored it and placed a hand on Harley's shoulder.

"So do I. So do I."

* * *

And we're firmly into romance here... any experienced romance writers out there who could lend a few tips? I feel way out of my league here & I'm afraid Crane's coming off a bit OOC... any advice would be greatly appreciated.


	21. Chapter 21

For a long moment, the two remained still, frozen in a tight embrace, and their shadows streamed together on the wall into a single dark streak on the crumbling walls. A continuous thumping and clanging sound came from the metal door. Neither of them paid it any attention.

"You came back for me," Harley murmured. "You... you came back..."

Crane gulped, feeling a twinge of misgiving at that. He hadn't really meant... but then, looking down at the mop of golden hair, slowly fading from blonde to brunette, he decided he didn't care.

"I did," he said. "I wouldn't... I couldn't leave you behind. Not like this."

From down the tunnel, there came a metallic clang, and the echoing shout of a guard.

"Down here! Aaaah! Someone get Merkel, he's going nuts!"

"You should go," Harley murmured.

"Yes," Crane said, not moving. Harley sighed and drew back, brushing long strands hair out of her face.

"Take me with you?"

Beneath the mask, Crane's face relaxed into a genuine smile.

"I thought you'd never ask," he said. Taking Harley's hand in his own, he turned and pointed down the tunnel. "It's not far from here... we'll have to move quickly once we're outside, though. Can you... are you..."

Harley hesitated, still trembling slightly.

"I'll be all right," she said, quietly. "Just... don't leave me."

Crane placed a hand on Harley's shoulder, looked her straight in the eye, and smiled.

"Never fear."

Then he turned and began to jog quickly down the tunnel, Harley easily keeping time beside him.

"Where are we going?" Harley asked after a minute.

"The tunnel ends just outside the fence," he replied. "I'm afraid we'll have to flee on foot from there."

"No..." Harley sighed. "I mean, where are we going?"

Crane swallowed, trying to think of an answer. Fortunately, they reached the first door at the moment, and he stepped aside to hold the door open for Harley.

"This way," he said. "There's a ladder somewhere around here..."

Harley disappeared into the darkness, and there was the sound of clanking and scuffling before she emerged, dragging an ancient wooden ladder behind her.

"Found it," she said, shaking the cobwebs off one hand. "Now what?"

Wordlessly, Crane took the ladder from Harley and motioned for her to step aside. Sliding the ladder across the ground in front of him, he waited until the legs caught on something hard and rough- a cinderblock. Crane carefully guided the ladder legs into the block and lifted it upright, raising the ladder and tilting it to rest against an unseen wall. Behind him, the sound of running footsteps echoed down the tunnel. Crane quickly placed a foot on the first rung, testing it before placing his full weight on it, and began to climb.

* * *

The air outside was bitterly cold, the wind still sharp and raw with the chill of Gotham winter. When Crane first strained and groaned and pushed aside the old manhole cover blocking the entrance, a large quantity of snow spilled over the edge and fell softly and silently into the tunnel. Crane sucked in his breath and hastily brushed the snow off his shoulders. It was colder than he remembered, and the jumpsuit was thinner.

Setting his jaw, Crane clambered out of the tunnel into half a foot of freezing pillowy whiteness and turned to help Harley out. The wind swirled by, sweeping a gust of white flakes into the faces of the two inmates and blasting cold air into Crane's loose jumpsuit. The sky was a dark, angry grey; it was the beginning of another Gotham snowstorm. Crane, however, was less concerned with the weather than with the powerful searchlights currently sweeping the cloud banks, and the dull red-blue revolving lights flashing against the high asylum wall.

"What now?" Harley shivered, standing close to Crane and rubbing her hands together.

"Ah... now..." Crane desperately tried to think of some way of escape. Granted, they'd managed to get outside the asylum, and hadn't been spotted yet, but-

"Now we take a taxi!" Harley shouted, and Crane found himself yanked forward by a strong grip on his arm.

She couldn't be serious. Who on earth would park a taxi outside Arkham Asylum, especially when both the police and Batman were clearly involved? Did they think the Bat might need a ride home? Crane shook his head in amazement. Harley had indeed spotted a taxi- a dilapidated, much-abused yellow Gotham Cab parked in the shadow of an overhanging gargoyle. Harley threw the passenger door open and literally dove in, pulling Crane behind her. He landed, hard, on the hard vinyl seat and slammed the door shut behind them.

_**The driver.**_

Crane's ectasy over the return of Scarecrow was lost in adrenaline as he shot up, pulled a razor-edged Joker card from his pocket, and clapped an arm around the driver's shoulder, holding the sharp edge of the card to the man's throat.

"Drive," he hissed. "Anywhere. Just do it."

The man had guts, Crane had to hand it to him. He didn't so much as twitch, just shifted into drive and pulled out, driving- to Crane's great relief- down a side road and away from the main, police-surrounded entrance. The lanky ex-professor relaxed slightly, still keeping the card to the man's throat, and glanced around the interior of the taxicab. It was clearly ill-used vehicle, with long rips in the vinyl seat covering and several ominous dents in the passenger-side window. The heater growled and sputtered loudly- but at least it worked- and a long, jagged crack divided the windshield nearly in half. The radio, an ancient, junkyard-purchase affair, buzzed out a static-filled song from an old musical.

_"...but especially in the month of June. There's a wealth of happiness and romance, all in the golden afternoon... all in the golden afternoon..."_

"Do you know who I am?" Crane questioned the driver. The man's lack of fear irritated him- and he certainly didn't want some do-gooder citizen to drive him to the police headquarters or some such place. It was hard to read the driver's expression; he wore a pair of dark sunglasses and a battered Gotham Knights baseball cap that cast his face into deep shadow.

"Jonathan Crane," the man said, voice flat and emotionless. "Or Scarecrow. Whichever you prefer."

"Um, Jonathan," Harley interrupted from the back seat, "there's a camera in here."

Crane's eyes narrowed, and he increased the pressure on the man's throat. Still no response.

**"Destroy it," **he snapped at Harley. **"And you... where are you taking us?"**

"Gotham Docks," the driver replied, not even turning his head. "It's... safer... there."

"I'm sure it is," Crane muttered. "Now listen, if you value your sanity-"

"It, uh, it... just disappeared," Harley broke in timidly. "I swear, I had it, but it just... went into the roof."

"Don't worry about that," Crane said, not taking his eyes from the driver. "You. Who are you? What are you doing here?"

There was a long moment of silence. The radio buzzed, whooshed and went on singing in static-filled tones. _"...strings of violets are all in tune. Tiger lilies love the dandy lions, in the golden after-" _Crane's fist smashed into the radio, and it sputtered and fell silent.

**"Answer me**," Scarecrow hissed.

Abruptly, the taxi came to a halt. The driver pulled the shift stick back to park and reached for something on the passenger's seat, completely ignoring the razor-edged playing card pressing against his jugular. Crane shook his head in amazement. He would have to tell Nigma about this- salvation in the form of a misplaced suicidal cabby. It had to be the most bizarre escape on record.

"Here." The driver handed something over his shoulder, still staring out the windshield. "For you."

"So tell me." Crane could remain silent no longer. "You aren't by any chance an- er- inmate yourself, are you?"

"I was going to ask the same thing," Harley chimed in, taking the package and leaning over the passenger's seat. "Schizophrenia much?"

The driver didn't respond to that, just opened the door, knocked aside the Joker card, and stiffly climbed out into the snow. A few seconds later, he opened Harley's side door and held out a hand to help her out. Behind him, Crane could make out the shadowy forms of several unfamiliar buildings and a long, sloping hill ending in a dock. It had all the marks of a seedy, back-alley smuggler's base, right down to the unmarked speedboat tied to the pier and shifty-looking captain at her helm.

"The boat is for you," the driver said. "The captain will help you."

"No thank you," Crane snapped. "I believe we can shift for ourselves. No help necessary."

"But Jonathan-" Harley began. Crane cut her off.

"Come on, you didn't really think I'd fall for it?" he snapped at the cabby. "The conveniently placed taxi cab right outside our tunnel, the oh-so-helpful cabby and captain who will 'help us?' Come on, Harley. I'd prefer not to end up 'working' for Penguin. Or Black Mask or Thorne's brat or whoever it is now. I don't care."

"He will help you," the driver repeated. _"There is another shore, you know, upon the other side."_

Before Jonathan Crane could take all that in, there was a very ominous _thud_ behind him. He turned to see a familiar, black, pointy-eared silhouette raise itself against the sky, eyes narrowing menacingly.

"Crane," he growled.

And Crane's heart gave a great leap. Pulling the remaining few Joker cards from his pocket, he stepped forward and planted himself in front of Harley, mask splitting into a wide, stitched grin.

**_"Batman."_**

* * *

_"...in the golden afternoon..."-_bonus points to whomever identifies this reference.

_"I'd prefer not to end up 'working' for Penguin..." _-reference to "As the Crow Flies" storyline, where Crane gets the short end of the stick working for Cobblepot.

Many thanks to the reviewers!


	22. Chapter 22

For a long, silent moment, they remained frozen in place, glaring at each other across a space of perhaps ten feet. The Dark Knight crouched beside a derelict automobile, eyes narrowed to gleaming white slits, jaw set in that oh-so-familiar expression of raw grit and determination. His jaw was a bit wider, his shoulders slightly stooped, his movement slightly less fluid than Crane remembered. But it was him, all right... Crane couldn't help a long, low chuckle. He felt... he felt more real, more awake, more _alive _than he had since his long incarceration. Every nerve seemed to be afire with anticipation, every fiber of his being fully engaged, and Crane felt the familiar sharpening of his vision and slight time distortion that came with a surge of adrenaline.

"Doctor Crane." The Batman's voice broke the silence, heavy with accusation. "And here I thought you were getting better."

"Batman," Crane shot back. "And here I thought you were retired."

"For you, I'll make an exception," growled Batman. "Where are you going?"

"Oh, I don't know for sure," returned Crane. "Someplace far away from Gotham. A quiet place, a place where I can sit and think in peace without having to worry about being interrupted by a man dressed like a flying rodent." He backed up slowly, edging towards the dock and waiting speedboat. "Why don't you head out to Arkham Asylum, Batman? I hear they're releasing all the inmates at once, tonight... after a special dose of medicine."

Batman paused for a moment, hand going to his cowl, and his eyes flicked away for the briefest second.

"Because I have experience," he said. "Arkham is a case in point."

Crane laughed almost hysterically, his body tingling with excitement... even fear. God, how long had it been since he felt afraid of someone?

"Hearing voices, Batman?" he taunted. "I don't see patients very often anymore, but I'd be happy to make a recommendation!"

"Right, Batsy!" Harley stepped out from behind Crane, and the ex-professor heard a very soft, very ominous click. "I'd be more than happy to take a look at your head!"

_Harley, you are officially wonderful!_

Batman's eyes widened in recognition.

"Dr. Quinzel. What are you doing here?"

"Making sure _you _don't try any funny business," Harley retorted. "Don't make a move, or I'll accentuate that cape for you with some nice bullet holes!"

The Dark Knight's eyes narrowed.

"The Joker's dead, Harleen. You can't do anything for him any more."

"Who says I'm doing it for him?"

While Harley and Batman traded witticisms, Crane scanned the area for any and all weapons and obstacles for the imminent fight. A pity Harley flanked him so closely- he couldn't risk gassing her, and the desire to see Batman writhing in terror was steadily mounting. Crane eyed the nearby alley- if he could lure Batman into the narrow aperature, he might have a chance of gassing the vigilante while Harley hung back. Three security cameras on the wall suddenly came to life, swiveling around to lock on Batman.

_Wonderful, he's got electronic backup of some sort. _

But Batman had suddenly stopped, hand going back to his cowl, and seemed to be talking to himself.

"Oracle. Oracle, do you copy. Come in, Oracle. I'm getting some sort of interference-"

Crane's face split into a wide smile. Gathering the last three Joker cards into his hand, he threw them like a Frisbee at Batman, hoping to catch the vigilante off-guard. It worked- sort of. Batman leaped behind the automobile, cape flying behind him. The next moment, however, he rebounded from behind the car and pounced on Crane, the momentum carrying both of them over a stack of crates and onto hard concrete. Pain radiated up Crane's side, and he found himself staring up into Batman's face with a mixture of awe and fascination.

"Welcome back, Batman," he whispered, his pulse racing.

"You're going back to Arkham," the vigilante said sternly. "Both of you."

"Don't move!" Harley screamed, and Jonathan struggled to see out of the mask. The one downside to a full-face burlap mask was the limited visibility, especially when he was pinned on his back and trying to see past a felt hat. He could only assume Harley had some sort of automatic weapon trained on Batman.

The Batman raised his head and shot Harley a look of mostly annoyance. He reached for something on his belt, and there was a mechanical roar and a scream for Harley as something large and metallic rushed by.

"Why drag Harley into this?" Batman growled. "Last I heard, her prognosis was very good with Joker out of the picture."

He drew back his hand to deliver a punch, and suddenly, Scarecrow was there, clawing his way to the forefront of Crane's mind.

_What are you doing? I can handle this! Don't-_

**_What do you think I'm doing, Jonny? If one of us is going to pick a fight with the Batman, it's going to be the one who knows how to do it!_**

_But Harley-_

**_I'm trying to protect you, Jonathan. Isn't that why you made me in the first place?_**

Jonathan's protests were lost as Scarecrow took over.

**_"Batman," _**Scarecrow rasped. **"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of-"**

Batman shook him again, roughly.

"Not Scarecrow," he snapped. "I want Dr. Jonathan Crane."

Scarecrow's stitched mouth widened into a sickly, jagged grin.

**"I'm afraid the doctor can't see you right now," **he taunted. **"But if you'd like to come back later... or leave a message..."**

Another blow, this time to the side of the face. There was gunfire from the alley; Scarecrow ignored it and wrenched one hand free. He would do it, he would do it, he would gas the Batman and release beautiful, delicious fear... the vigilante anticipated it and seized Scarecrow's wrist, twisting it painfully behind his back. Scarecrow bit back a cry of pain and flailed at the Batman with both feet. Suddenly, something hit Batman's side, knocking him off balance. The straw man seized the opportunity, hammered Batman's unprotected jaw with the flat of his hand, and was free. He struggled to his feet, turned, and liberally doused the Batman with fear toxin, laughing.

That slowed the Dark Knight down, but only marginally; instead of coughing and choking and screaming, he sucked his breath in and fumbled for something at his belt. No doubt a gas mask. Scarecrow stumbled backwards and glanced across the clearing. Where was Harley? He spotted her near the alley, leaping acrobatically over the hood of a black, low-slung vehicle with dimmed headlights. The Batmobile.

A sudden blow jarred Scarecrow from behind, and he turned to trade blows with the Batman. It wasn't much of a contest; without the advantage of fear-inducing toxin, Scarecrow's fighting skills were significantly less than the Dark Knight's. He felt a thrill of adrenaline and fear over exhaustion- his fear, Jonny's fear, and he paused for just a moment, savoring the feeling- and lunged at Batman. Dimly, he realized that he was laughing, and that Batman was landing blow after blow on his unprotected side, but it didn't really matter at the moment, and he kept flailing at the Batman...

THUNK. Something connectedly solidly with his jaw, and he felt himself flying backwards. This couldn't be good... with a loud, dramatic, very painful crash, the Master of Fear found himself plowed backwards through a row of garbage cans and into a brick wall. Pain radiated down his spine, and he could feel several of the wounds from Jane Doe reopening. He laughed weakly, felt blood trickle down his chin, and tried desperately to get his eyes to focus properly on Batman's face.

**"Sing a song of... sixpence... a pocketful.. of... rye..."**

There was an explosion of pain as Batman's fist slammed into Crane's face. He groaned and slumped to the ground, feeling Scarecrow waver slightly and go silent just before he passed out.

* * *

The whole world was rocking slightly, the air was abnormally cool and fresh, and he was lying on something both soft and hard at the same time. With a groan, Jonathan Crane opened his eyes slightly and found himself staring into... the sky. It was that clear, colorless quality of the pre-dawn, no longer night but not yet day. He blinked for a moment, slightly confused. This wasn't his cell.

There was a soft sniffle, and Crane felt something shift beneath him.

"Jonathan... you're awake..."

"Harley," he said softly. "Where... what happened?"

"Batman," she whispered. "We got in a fight with Batman, remember?"

"I lost."

"Yeah, but..." there was more movement, and Crane felt soft, golden hair brush his face with an indistinguishable thrill. "I didn't. You... you got knocked out and... it was amazing. People came crowding in from everywhere, attacking him..."

"Attacking Batman?" Crane murmured. Even without seeing her face, he could feel Harley smile.

"Yeah," she said. "And you know... they were all wearing hats."

"Jervis."

"He gave you something. I've... I've got it here."

And Harley was guiding a large, brown-paper package into his hands. Crane smiled a bit sadly at the thick lettering: "JOnAthOn CraANe- tHeRe IS anoTheR sHoRe, yOu KnOw, uPoN thE oThEr sIDe" and pulled at the twine holding the package together. The paper fell away to reveal a painted plate, the sort used for displays or for serving food at fancy dinners or teas. Around the outer rim ran a stylized pattern of top hats, roses, and teacups; in the center, someone had painted a very large, very ornate picture of the Mad Tea Party, framed by rose-bushes. Alice sat at one end of the table, laughing and holding an oversized cup of tea; to her left, a bony March Hare was smiling and shaking hands with the Dormouse. The Hatter had been painted with his back to the viewer, but seemed to be in the act of proposing a toast while golden sunlight streamed down over the entire party.

"Tetch," Jonathan murmured. He felt paper behind the ceramic, and pulled out a sealed envelope, this one marked MARCH HARE. Slitting it, he pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. A parchment paper fluttered out, and Harley picked it up.

"Should I read it?" she asked hesitantly. When Crane nodded it, she unfolded the paper and began to read:

"A boat, beneath a sunny sky,  
Lingering onward dreamily  
In an evening of July-

Children three that nestle near  
Eager eye and willing ear  
Pleased a simple tale to hear-

Long has paled that sunny sky;  
Echos fade and memories die;  
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,  
Alice moving under skies  
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,  
Eager eye and willing ear,  
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,  
Dreaming as the days go by,  
Dreaming as the summers die.

Ever drifting down the stream-  
Lingering in the golden gleam-  
Life, what is it but a dream?

"What... is it?" Harley asked in a subdued tone.

"The end," Crane replied. "The last of Alice's adventures in Wonderland..." he shifted slightly, dull pain creeping into his side, and reached for Harley's hand. "Where are we?"

"On... on the boat," Harley said. "Safe. Away from Batman."

"But more than that..." Crane whispered. "Where are we going?"

There was a long moment of silence, and Harley very carefully, very gently placed an arm around his shoulders.

"Wherever you want to..." she whispered back. "Jonathan."

The sun was coming up, he noted dimly, and the clear sky was tinged with pink...

"Then let's go somewhere far away from Gotham," he said. "Someplace quiet, someplace... someplace where we can sit and think... and live..."

"Yes," Harley whispered. "Yes, yes... someplace where we..." she swallowed and ventured almost timidly, "...could be together..."

"Yes..."

The quiet hum of the motor filled the silence as the boat reached the mouth of Gotham Bay and slowly, steadily, moved away into the waters. The sky had gradually turned from pink to gold, and from gold to orange, and for one moment there was an answering flash of bright gold from the boat as the sun rose on Gotham City, heralding the glorious beginning of a new day.

* * *

And there you have it, folks... my first attempt at romance. Many thanks to my reviewers and especially to Athulis, who suggested this and gave me the opportunity to develop my creative skills.

The poem given really is the end of "Through the Looking-Glass," the last of Lewis Carroll's Alice books, and as soon as read it I thought it was a perfect ending for the Mad Hatter as well- forever dreaming of Alice and Wonderland.


End file.
